REVERIES  OF 
A  SCHOOLMASTER 


BY 
FRANCIS  B.  PEARSON 

STATE  SUPERINTENDENT  OP  PUBLIC  INSTRUCTION  FOB  OHIO 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  EVOLUTION  OF  THE  TEACHER,"  "  THE  HIGH-SCHOOL 

PROBLEM,"  "THE  VITALIZED  SCHOOL" 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW   YORK  CHICAGO  BOSTON 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


STAC* 
ANNU 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  IN  MEDIAS  RES 3 

II.  RETROSPECT 10 

III.  BROWN 17 

IV.  PSYCHOLOGICAL  ...... 23 

V.  BALKING 31 

VL  LANTERNS 37 

VII.  COMPLETE  LIVING 44 

VIII.  MY  SPEECH 51 

IX.  SCHOOL-TEACHING 57 

X.  BEEFSTEAK 65 

XI.  FREEDOM 72 

XII.  THINGS 78 

XIII.  TARGETS 84 

XIV.  SINNERS 90 

XV.  HOEING  POTATOES 96 

XVI.  CHANGING  THE  MIND 102 

XVII.  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW 108 

XVIII.  PICNICS 114 

iii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX.  MAKE-BELIEVE 120 

XX.  BEHAVIOK 126 

XXI.  FOREFINGERS 132 

XXII.  STORY-TELLING 138 

XXIII.  GRANDMOTHER 145 

XXIV.  MY  WORLD.   ............  151 

XXV.  THIS  OR  THAT 157 

XXVI.  RABBIT  PEDAGOGY     163 

XXVII.  PERSPECTIVE 169 

XXVIII.  PURELY  PEDAGOGICAL 177 

XXIX.  LONGEVITY 184 

XXX.  FOUR-LEAF  CLOVER 191 

XXXI.  MOUNTAIN-CLIMBING  198 


IV 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 


CHAPTER  I 
IN  MEDIAS  RES 

I  AM  rather  glad  now  that  I  took  a  little  dip  (one 
could  scarce  call  it  a  baptism)  into  the  Latin,  and 
especially  into  Horace,  for  that  good  soul  gave  me  the 
expression  in  medias  res.  That  is  a  forceful  expression, 
right  to  the  heart  of  things,  and  applies  equally  well 
to  the  writing  of  a  composition  or  the  eating  of  a 
watermelon.  Those  who  have  crossed  the  Channel, 
from  Folkstone  to  Boulogne,  know  that  the  stanch 
little  ship  Invicta  had  scarcely  left  dock  when  they 
were  in  medias  res.  They  were  conscious  of  it,  too,  if 
indeed  they  were  conscious  of  anything  not  strictly 
personal  to  themselves.  This  expression  admits  us  at 
once  to  the  light  and  warmth  (if  such  there  be)  of  the 
inner  temple  nor  keeps  us  shivering  out  in  the  vestibule. 
Writers  of  biography  are  wont  to  keep  us  waiting 
too  long  for  happenings  that  are  really  worth  our  while. 
They  tell  us  that  some  one  was  born  at  such  a  time, 
as  if  that  were  really  important.  Why,  anybody  can  be 
born,  but  it  requires  some  years  to  determine  whether 
his  being  born  was  a  matter  of  importance  either  to 
3 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

himself  or  to  others.  When  I  write  my  biographical 
sketch  of  William  Shakespeare  I  shall  say  that  in  a 
certain  year  he  wrote  "Hamlet,"  which  fact  clearly 
justified  his  being  born  so  many  years  earlier. 

The  good  old  lady  said  of  her  pastor:  "He  enters 
the  pulpit,  takes  his  text,  and  then  the  dear  man  just 
goes  everywhere  preaching  the  Gospel."  That  man 
had  a  special  aptitude  for  the  in  medias  res  method  of 
procedure.  Many  children  in  school  who  are  not 
versed  in  Latin  would  be  glad  to  have  their  teachers 
endowed  with  this  aptitude.  They  are  impatient  of 
preliminaries,  both  in  the  school  and  at  the  dinner- 
table.  And  it  is  pretty  difficult  to  discover  just  where 
childhood  leaves  off  in  this  respect. 

So  I  am  grateful  to  Horace  for  the  expression.  Hav- 
ing started  right  in  the  midst  of  things,  one  can  never 
get  off  the  subject,  and  that  is  a  great  comfort.  Some- 
times college  graduates  confess  (or  perhaps  boast)  that 
they  have  forgotten  their  Latin.  I  fear  to  follow  their 
example  lest  my  neighbor,  who  often  drops  in  for  a 
friendly  chat,  might  get  to  wondering  whether  I  have 
not  also  forgotten  much  of  the  English  I  am  supposed 
to  have  acquired  in  college.  He  might  regard  my 
English  as  quite  as  feeble  when  compared  with  Shake- 
speare or  Milton  as  my  Latin  when  compared  with 
Cicero  or  Virgil.  So  I  take  counsel  with  prudence  and 
keep  silent  on  the  subject  of  Latin. 
4 


IN   MEDIAS   RES 

When  I  am  taking  a  stroll  in  the  woods,  as  I  delight 
to  do  in  the  autumn-time,  laundering  my  soul  with 
the  gorgeous  colors,  the  music  of  the  rustling  leaves, 
the  majestic  silences,  and  the  sounds  that  are  less  and 
more  than  sounds,  I  often  wonder,  when  I  take  one 
bypath,  what  experiences  I  might  have  had  if  I  had 
taken  the  other.  I'll  never  know,  of  course,  but  I 
keep  on  wondering.  So  it  is  with  this  Latin.  I  won- 
der how  much  worse  matters  could  or  would  have  been 
if  I  had  never  studied  it  at  all.  As  the  old  man  said 
to  the  young  fellow  who  consulted  him  as  to  getting 
married:  "You'll  be  sorry  if  you  do,  and  sorry  if  you 
don't."  I  used  to  feel  a  sort  of  pity  for  my  pupils  to 
think  how  they  would  have  had  no  education  at  all 
if  they  had  not  had  me  as  their  teacher;  now  I  am 
beginning  to  wonder  how  much  further  along  they 
might  have  been  if  they  had  had  some  other  teacher. 
But  probably  most  of  the  misfits  hi  life  are  in  the 
imagination,  after  all.  We  all  think  the  huckleberries 
are  more  abundant  on  the  other  bush. 

Hoeing  potatoes  is  a  calm,  serene,  dignified,  and 
philosophical  enterprise.  But  at  bottom  it  is  much 
the  same  in  principle  as  teaching  school.  In  my 
potato-patch  I  am  merely  trying  to  create  situations 
that  are  favorable  to  growth,  and  in  the  school  I  can 
do  neither  more  nor  better.  I  cannot  cause  either 
boys  or  potatoes  to  grow.  If  I  could,  I'd  certainly 
5 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

have  the  process  patented.  I  know  no  more  about 
how  potatoes  grow  than  I  do  about  the  fourth  dimen- 
sion or  the  unearned  increment.  But  they  grow  in 
spite  of  my  ignorance,  and  I  know  that  there  are  cer- 
tain conditions  in  which  they  flourish.  So  the  best  I 
can  do  is  to  make  conditions  favorable.  Nor  do  I 
bother  about  the  weeds.  I  just  centre  my  attention 
and  my  hoe  upon  loosening  the  soil  and  let  the  weeds 
look  out  for  themselves.  Hoeing  potatoes  is  a  syn- 
thetic process,  but  cutting  weeds  is  analytic,  and  syn- 
thesis is  better,  both  for  potatoes  and  for  boys.  In 
good  time,  if  the  boy  is  kept  growing,  he  will  have 
outgrown  his  stone-bruises,  his  chapped  hands,  his 
freckles,  his  warts,  and  his  physical  and  spiritual  awk- 
wardness. The  weeds  will  have  disappeared. 

The  potato-patch  is  your  true  pedagogical  laboratory 
and  conservatory.  If  one  cannot  learn  pedagogy  there 
it  is  no  fault  of  the  potato-patch.  Horace  must  have 
thought  of  in  medias  res  while  hoeing  potatoes.  There 
is  no  other  way  to  do  it,  and  that  is  bed-rock  pedagogy. 
Just  to  get  right  at  the  work  and  do  it,  that's  the  very 
thing  the  teacher  is  striving  toward.  Here  among  my 
potatoes  I  am  actuated  by  motives,  I  invest  the  sub- 
ject with  human  interest,  I  experience  motor  activities, 
I  react,  I  function,  and  I  go  so  far  as  to  evaluate.  In- 
deed, I  run  the  entire  gamut.  And  then,  when  I  am 
lying  beneath  the  canopy  of  the  wide-spreading  tree, 
6 


IN  MEDIAS  RES 

I  do  a  bit  of  research  work  in  trying  to  locate  the  sorest 
muscle.  And,  as  to  efficiency,  well,  I  give  myself  a 
high  grade  in  that  and  shall  pass  cum  laude  if  the  mat- 
ter is  left  to  me.  If  our  grading  were  based  upon 
effort  rather  than  achievement,  I  could  bring  my  ach- 
ing back  into  court,  if  not  my  potatoes.  But  our 
system  of  grading  in  the  schools  demands  potatoes, 
no  matter  much  how  obtained,  with  scant  credit  for 
backaches. 

We  have  farm  ballads  and  farm  arithmetics,  but  as 
yet  no  one  has  written  for  us  a  book  on  farm  pedagogy. 
I'd  do  it  myself  but  for  the  feeling  that  some  Strayer, 
or  McMurry,  or  O'Shea  will  get  right  at  it  as  soon 
as  he  has  come  upon  this  suggestion.  That's  my  one 
great  trouble.  The  other  fellow  has  the  thing  done 
before  I  can  get  around  to  it.  I  would  have  written 
"The  Message  to  Garcia,"  but  Mr.  Hubbard  antici- 
pated me.  Then,  I  was  just  ready  to  write  a  luminous 
description  of  Yellowstone  Falls  when  I  happened  upon 
the  one  that  DeWitt  Talmage  wrote,  and  I  could  see 
no  reason  for  writing  another.  So  it  is.  I  seem  always 
to  be  just  too  late.  I  wish  now  that  I  had  written 
"  Recessional "  before  Kipling  got  to  it.  No  doubt,  the 
same  thing  will  happen  with  my  farm  pedagogy.  If 
one  could  only  stake  a  claim  in  all  this  matter  of  writ- 
ing as  they  do  in  the  mining  regions,  the  whole  thing 
would  be  simplified.  I'd  stake  my  claim  on  farm  ped- 
7 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

agogy  and  then  go  on  hoeing  my  potatoes  while  think- 
ing out  what  to  say  on  the  subject. 

Whoever  writes  the  book  will  do  well  to  show  how 
catching  a  boy  is  analogous  to  catching  a  colt  out  in 
the  pasture.  Both  feats  require  tact  and,  at  the  very 
least,  horse-sense.  The  other  day  I  wanted  to  catch 
my  colt  and  went  out  to  the  pasture  for  that  purpose. 
There  is  a  hill  in  the  pasture,  and  I  went  to  the  top  of 
this  and  saw  the  colt  at  the  far  side  of  the  pasture  in 
what  we  call  the  swale — low,  wet  ground,  where  weeds 
abound.  I  didn't  want  to  get  my  shoes  soiled,  so  I 
stood  on  the  hill  and  called  and  called.  The  colt 
looked  up  now  and  then  and  then  went  on  with  his 
own  affairs.  In  my  chagrin  I  was  just  about  ready  to 
get  angry  when  it  occurred  to  me  that  the  colt  wasn't 
angry,  and  that  I  ought  to  show  as  good  sense  as  a 
mere  horse.  That  reflection  relieved  the  tension  some- 
what, and  I  thought  it  wise  to  meditate  a  bit.  Here 
am  I;  yonder  is  the  colt.  I  want  him;  he  doesn't  want 
me.  He  will  not  come  to  me ;  so  I  must  go  to  him.  Then, 
what?  Oh,  yes,  native  interests — that's  it,  native  in- 
terests. I'm  much  obliged  to  Professor  James  for  re- 
minding me.  Now,  just  what  are  the  native  interests 
of  a  colt?  Why,  oats,  of  course.  So,  I  must  return 
to  the  barn  and  get  a  pail  of  oats.  An  empty  pail 
might  do  once,  but  never  again.  So  I  must  have  oats 
in  my  pail.  Either  a  colt  or  a  boy  becomes  shy  after 
8 


IN  MEDIAS  RES 

he  has  once  been  deceived.  The  boy  who  fails  to  get 
oats  in  the  classroom  to-day,  will  shy  off  from  the 
teacher  to-morrow.  He  will  not  even  accept  her  state- 
ment that  there  is  oats  in  the  pail,  for  yesterday  the 
pail  was  empty — nothing  but  sound. 

But  even  with  pail  and  oats  I  had  to  go  to  the  colt, 
getting  my  shoes  soiled  and  my  clothes  torn,  but  there 
was  no  other  way.  I  must  begin  where  the  colt  (or 
boy)  is,  as  the  book  on  pedagogy  says.  I  wanted  to 
stay  on  the  hill  where  everything  was  agreeable,  but 
that  wouldn't  get  the  colt.  Now,  if  Mr.  Charles  H. 
Judd  cares  to  elaborate  this  outline,  I  urge  no  objec- 
tion and  shall  not  claim  the  protection  of  copyright.  I 
shall  be  only  too  glad  to  have  him  make  clear  to  all  of 
us  the  pedagogical  recipe  for  catching  colts  and  boys. 


CHAPTER  II 
RETROSPECT 

TV/TR.  PATRICK  HENRY  was  probably  correct  in 
•*•  •*•  saying  that  there  is  no  way  of  judging  the  future 
but  by  the  past,  and,  to  my  thinking,  he  might  well 
have  included  the  present  along  with  the  future.  To- 
day is  better  or  worse  than  yesterday  or  some  other 
day  in  the  past,  just  as  this  cherry  pie  is  better  or 
worse  than  some  past  cherry  pie.  But  even  this  pie 
may  seem  a  bit  less  glorious  than  the  pies  of  the  past, 
because  of  my  jaded  appetite — a  fact  that  is  easily  lost 
sight  of.  Folks  who  extol  the  glories  of  the  good  old 
times  may  be  forgetting  that  they  are  not  able  to  relive 
the  emotions  that  put  the  zest  into  those  past  events. 
We  used  to  go  to  "big  meeting"  in  a  two-horse  sled, 
with  the  wagon-body  half  filled  with  hay  and  heaped 
high  with  blankets  and  robes.  The  mercury  might  be 
low  in  the  tube,  but  we  recked  not  of  that.  Our  in- 
difference to  climatic  conditions  was  not  due  alone  to 
the  wealth  of  robes  and  blankets,  but  the  proximity 
of  another  member  of  the  human  family  may  have  had 
something  to  do  with  it.  If  we  could  reconstruct  the 
emotional  life  of  those  good  old  times,  the  physical 
10 


RETROSPECT 

conditions  would  take  their  rightful  place  as  a  back- 
ground. 

If  we  could  only  bring  back  the  appetite  of  former 
years  we  might  find  this  pie  better  than  the  pies  of 
old.  The  good  brother  who  seems  to  think  the  text- 
books of  his  boyhood  days  were  better  than  the  mod- 
ern ones  forgets  that  along  with  the  old-time  text- 
books went  skating,  rabbit-hunting,  snowballing, 
coasting,  fishing,  sock-up,  bull-pen,  two-old-cat,  town- 
ball,  and  shinny-on-the-ice.  He  is  probably  confusing 
those  majors  with  the  text-book  minor.  His  criticism 
of  things  and  books  modern  is  probably  a  voicing  of 
his  regret  that  he  has  lost  his  zeal  for  the  fun  and 
frolic  of  youth.  If  he  could  but  drink  a  few  copious 
drafts  from  the  Fountain  of  Youth,  the  books  of  the 
present  might  not  seem  so  inferior  after  all.  The 
bread  and  apple-butter  stage  of  our  hero's  career  may 
seem  to  dim  the  lustre  of  the  later  porterhouse  steak, 
but  with  all  the  glory  of  the  halcyon  days  of  yore  it  is 
to  be  noted  that  he  rides  in  an  automobile  and  not  in 
an  ox-cart,  and  prefers  electricity  to  the  good  old  oil- 
lamp. 

I  concede  with  enthusiasm  the  joys  of  bygone  days, 
and  would  be  glad  to  repeat  those  experiences  with 
sundry  very  specific  reservations  and  exceptions.  That 
thick  bread  with  its  generous  anointing  of  apple  butter 
discounted  all  the  nectar  and  ambrosia  of  the  books 
11 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

and  left  its  marks  upon  the  character  as  well  as  the 
features  of  the  recipient.  The  mouth  waters  even  now 
as  I  recall  the  bill  of  fare  plus  the  appetite.  But  if  I 
were  going  back  to  the  good  old  days  I'd  like  to  take 
some  of  the  modern  improvements  along  with  me.  It 
thrills  me  to  consider  the  modern  school  credits  for 
home  work  with  all  the  "  57  varieties "  as  an  integral 
feature  of  the  good  old  days.  Alas,  how  much  we 
missed  by  not  knowing  about  all  this !  What  miracles 
might  have  been  wrought  had  we  and  our  teachers 
only  known!  Poor,  ignorant  teachers!  Little  did 
they  dream  that  such  wondrous  things  could  ever  be. 
Life  might  have  been  made  a  glad,  sweet  song  for  us 
had  it  been  supplied  with  these  modern  attachments. 
I  spent  many  weary  hours  over  partial  payments  in 
Ray's  Third  Part,  when  I  might  have  been  brushing 
my  teeth  or  combing  my  hair  instead.  Then,  instead 
of  threading  the  mazes  of  Greene's  Analysis  and  pars- 
ing "Thanatopsis,"  I  might  just  as  well  have  been 
asleep  in  the  haymow,  where  ventilation  was  super- 
abundant. How  proudly  could  I  have  produced  the 
home  certificate  as  to  my  haymow  experience  and  re- 
ceived an  exhilarating  grade  in  grammar ! 

Just  here  I  interrupt  myself  to  let  the  imagination 

follow  me  homeward  on  the  days  when  grades  were 

issued.    The  triumphal   processions  of  the   Romans 

would  have  been  mild  by  comparison.    The  arch  look 

12 


RETROSPECT 

upon  my  face,  the  martial  mien,  and  the  flashing  eye 
all  betoken  the  real  hero.  Then  the  pride  of  that 
home,  the  sumptuous  feast  of  chicken  and  angel-food 
cake,  and  the  parental  acclaim — all  befitting  the 
stanch  upholder  of  the  family  honor.  Of  course, 
nothing  like  this  ever  really  happened,  which  goes  to 
prove  that  I  was  born  years  too  early  in  the  world's 
history.  The  more  I  think  of  this  the  more  acute  is 
my  sympathy  with  Maud  Muller.  That  girl  and  I 
could  sigh  a  duet  thinking  what  might  have  been. 
Why,  I  might  have  had  my  college  degree  while  still 
wearing  short  trousers.  I  was  something  of  an  adept 
at  milking  cows  and  could  soon  have  eliminated  the 
entire  algebra  by  the  method  of  substitution.  Milking 
the  cows  was  one  of  my  regular  tasks,  anyhow,  and  I 
could  thus  have  combined  business  with  pleasure. 
And  if  by  riding  a  horse  to  water  I  could  have  gained 
immunity  from  the  Commentaries  by  one  Julius  Csesar, 
full  lustily  would  I  have  shouted,  a  la  Richard  III:  "A 
horse !  A  horse !  My  kingdom  for  a  horse ! " 

One  man  advocates  the  plan  of  promoting  pupils  hi 
the  schools  on  the  basis  of  character,  and  this  plan 
strongly  appeals  to  me  as  right,  plausible,  and  alto- 
gether feasible.  Had  this  been  proposed  when  I  was 
a  schoolboy  I  probably  should  have  made  a  few  con- 
ditions, or  at  least  have  asked  a  few  questions.  I 
should  certainly  have  wanted  to  know  who  was  to  be 
13 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

the  judge  in  the  matter,  and  what  was  his  definition 
of  character.  Much  would  have  depended  upon  that. 
If  he  had  decreed  that  cruelty  to  animals  indicates  a 
lack  of  character  and  then  proceeded  to  denominate 
as  cruelty  to  animals  such  innocent  diversions  as  shoot- 
ing woodpeckers  in  a  cherry-tree  with  a  Flobert  rifle, 
or  smoking  chipmunks  out  from  a  hollow  log,  or  tying 
a  strip  of  red  flannel  to  a  hen's  tail  to  take  her  mind 
off  the  task  of  trying  to  hatch  a  door-knob,  or  tying  a 
tin  can  to  a  dog's  tail  to  encourage  him  in  his  laudable 
enterprise  of  demonstrating  the  principle  of  uniformly 
accelerated  motion — if  he  had  included  these  and  other 
such  like  harmless  antidotes  for  ennui  in  his  category, 
I  should  certainly  have  asked  to  be  excused  from  his 
character  curriculum  and  should  have  pursued  the 
even  tenor  of  my  ways,  splitting  kindling,  currying  the 
horse,  washing  the  buggy,  carrying  water  from  the 
pump  to  the  kitchen  and  saying,  "Thank  you,"  to  my 
elders  as  the  more  agreeable  avenue  of  promotion. 

If  we  had  had  character  credits  in  the  good  old  days 
I  might  have  won  distinction  in  school  and  been  saved 
much  embarrassment  in  later  years.  Instead  of  learn- 
ing the  latitude  and  longitude  of  Madagascar,  Chatta- 
hoochee,  and  Kamchatka,  I  might  have  received  high 
grades  in  geography  by  abstaining  from  the  chewing  of 
gum,  by  not  wearing  my  hands  in  my  trousers-pock- 
ets, by  walking  instead  of  ambling  or  slouching,  by 
14 


RETROSPECT 

wiping  the  mud  from  my  shoes  before  entering  the 
house,  by  a  personally  conducted  tour  through  the 
realms  of  manicuring,  and  by  learning  the  position  and 
use  of  the  hat-rack.  Getting  no  school  credits  for  such 
incidental  minors  in  the  great  scheme  of  life,  I  grew 
careless  and  indifferent  and  acquired  a  reputation  that 
I  do  not  care  to  dwell  upon.  If  those  who  had  me  in 
charge,  or  thought  they  had,  had  only  been  wise  and 
given  me  school  credits  for  all  these  things,  what  a 
model  boy  I  might  have  been ! 

Why,  I  would  have  swallowed  my  pride,  donned  a 
kitchen  apron,  and  washed  the  supper  dishes,  and  no 
normal  boy  enjoys  that  ceremony.  By  making  passes 
over  the  dishes  I  should  have  been  exorcising  the  spooks 
of  cube  root,  and  that  would  have  been  worth  some 
personal  sacrifice.  What  a  boon  it  would  have  been 
for  the  home  folks  too!  They  could  have  indulged 
their  penchant  for  literary  exercises,  sitting  in  the 
parlor  making  out  certificates  for  me  to  carry  to  my 
teacher  next  day,  and  so  all  the  rough  places  in  the 
home  would  have  been  made  smooth.  But  the  crown- 
ing achievement  would  have  been  my  graduation  from 
college.  I  can  see  the  picture.  I  am  husking  corn 
in  the  lower  field.  To  reach  this  field  one  must  go  the 
length  of  the  orchard  and  then  walk  across  the  meadow. 
It  is  a  crisp  autumn  day,  about  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  the  sun  is  shining.  The  golden  ears  are 
15 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

piling  up  under  my  magic  skill,  and  there  is  peace.  As 
I  take  down  another  bundle  from  the  shock  I  descry 
what  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  procession  wending  its  way 
through  the  orchard.  Then  the  rail  fence  is  sur- 
mounted, and  the  procession  solemnly  moves  across 
the  meadow.  In  time  the  president  and  an  assort- 
ment of  faculty  members  stand  before  me,  bedight  in 
caps  and  gowns.  I  note  that  their  gowns  are  liberally 
garnished  with  Spanish  needles  and  cockleburs,  and 
their  shoes  give  evidence  of  contact  with  elemental 
mud.  But  then  and  there  they  confer  upon  me  the 
degree  of  bachelor  of  arts  magna  cum  laude.  But  for 
this  interruption  I  could  have  finished  husking  that 
row  before  the  dinner-horn  blew. 


16 


CHAPTER  III 
BROWN 

MY  neighbor  came  in  again  this  evening,  not  for 
anything  in  particular,  but  unconsciously  prov- 
ing that  men  are  gregarious  animals.  I  like  this  neigh- 
bor. His  name  is  Brown.  I  like  the  name  Brown, 
too.  It  is  easy  to  pronounce.  By  a  gentle  crescendo 
you  go  to  the  summit  and  then  coast  to  the  bottom. 
The  name  Brown,  when  pronounced,  is  a  circumflex 
accent.  Now,  if  his  name  had  happened  to  be  Mori- 
arity  I  never  could  be  quite  sure  when  I  came  to  the 
end  in  pronouncing  it.  I'm  glad  his  name  is  not 
Moriarity — not  because  it  is  Irish,  for  I  like  the  Irish; 
so  does  Brown,  for  he  is  married  to  one  of  them.  Any 
one  who  has  been  in  Cork  and  heard  the  fine  old  Irish- 
man say  in  his  musical  and  inimitable  voice,  "'Tis  a 
lovely  dye,"  such  a  one  will  ever  after  have  a  snug 
place  in  his  affections  for  the  Irish,  whether  he  has 
kissed  the  "Blarney  stone"  or  not.  If  he  has  heard 
this  same  driver  of  a  jaunting-car  rhapsodize  about 
"Shandon  Bells"  and  the  author,  Father  Prout,  his 
admiration  for  things  and  people  Irish  will  become 
well-nigh  a  passion.  He  will  not  need  to  add  to  his 
17 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

mental  picture,  for  the  sake  of  emphasis  or  color,  the 
cherry-cheeked  maids  who  lead  their  mites  of  donkeys 
along  leafy  roads,  the  carts  heaped  high  with  cab- 
bages. Even  without  this  addition  he  will  become 
expansive  when  he  speaks  of  Ireland  and  the  Irish. 

But,  as  I  was  saying,  Brown  came  in  this  evening 
just  to  barter  small  talk,  as  we  often  do.  Now,  in 
physical  build  Brown  is  somewhere  between  Falstaff 
and  Cassius,  while  in  mental  qualities  he  is  an  admix- 
ture of  Plato,  Solomon,  and  Bill  Nye. 

When  he  drops  in  we  do  not  discuss  matters,  nor 
even  converse;  we  talk.  Our  talk  just  oozes  out  and 
flows  whither  it  wills,  or  little  wisps  of  talk  drift  into 
the  silences,  and  now  and  then  a  dash  of  homely  phi- 
losophy splashes  into  the  talking.  Brown  is  a  real 
comfort.  He  is  never  cryptic,  nor  enigmatic,  at  least 
consciously  so,  nor  does  he  ever  try  to  be  impressive. 
If  he  were  a  teacher  he  would  attract  his  pupils  by 
his  good  sense,  his  sincerity,  his  simplicity,  and  his 
freedom  from  pose.  I  cannot  think  of  him  as  ever 
becoming  teachery,  with  a  high-pitched  voice  and  a 
hysteric  manner.  He  has  too  much  poise  for  that. 
He  would  never  discuss  things  with  children.  He 
would  talk  with  them.  Brown  cannot  walk  on  stilts, 
nor  has  the  air-ship  the  least  fascination  for  him. 

One  of  my  teachers  for  a  time  was  Doctor  T.  C.  Men- 
denhall,  and  he  was  a  great  teacher.  He  could  sound 
18 


BROWN 

the  very  depths  of  his  subject  and  simply  talk  it.  He 
led  us  to  think,  and  thinking  is  not  a  noisy  process. 
Truth  to  tell,  his  talks  often  caused  my  poor  head  to 
ache  from  overwork.  But  I  have  been  in  classes  where 
the  oases  of  thought  were  far  apart  and  one  could 
doze  and  dream  on  the  journey  from  one  to  the  other. 
Doctor  Mendenhall's  teaching  was  all  white  meat,  sweet 
to  the  taste,  and  altogether  nourishing.  He  is  the 
man  who  made  the  first  correct  copy  of  Shakespeare's 
epitaph  there  in  the  church  at  Stratford-on-Avon.  I 
sent  a  copy  of  Doctor  Mendenhall's  version  to  Mr. 
Brassinger,  the  librarian  in  the  Memorial  Building, 
and  have  often  wondered  what  his  comment  was.  He 
never  told  me.  There  are  those  "who,  having  eyes, 
see  not."  There  had  been  thousands  of  people  who 
had  looked  at  that  epitaph  with  the  printed  copy  in 
hand,  and  yet  had  never  noticed  the  discrepancy,  and 
it  remained  for  an  American  to  point  out  the  mistake. 
But  that  is  Doctor  Mendenhall's  way.  He  is  nothing 
if  not  thorough,  and  that  proves  his  scientific  mind. 

Well,  Brown  fell  to  talking  about  the  Isle  of  Pines, 
in  the  course  of  our  verbal  exchanges,  and  I  drew  him 
out  a  bit,  receiving  a  liberal  education  on  the  subjects 
of  grapefruit,  pineapples,  and  bananas.  From  my 
school-days  I  have  carried  over  the  notion  that  the 
Caribbean  Sea  is  one  of  the  many  geographical  myths 
with  which  the  school-teacher  is  wont  to  intimidate 
19 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

boys  who  would  far  rather  be  scaring  rabbits  out  from 
under  a  brush  heap.  But  here  sits  a  man  who  has 
travelled  upon  the  Caribbean  Sea,  and  therefore  there 
must  be  such  a  place.  Our  youthful  fancies  do  get 
severe  jolts!  From  my  own  experience  I  infer  that 
much  of  our  teaching  in  the  schools  doesn't  take  hold, 
that  the  boys  and  girls  tolerate  it  but  do  not  believe. 
I  cannot  recall  just  when  I  first  began  to  believe  in 
Mt.  Vesuvius,  but  I  am  quite  certain  that  it  was  not 
in  my  school-days.  It  may  have  been  in  my  teaching- 
days,  but  I'm  not  quite  certain.  I  have  often  won- 
dered whether  we  teachers  really  believe  all  we  try  to 
teach.  I  feel  a  pity  for  poor  Sisyphus,  poor  fellow, 
rolling  that  stone  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  then  hav- 
ing to  do  the  work  all  over  when  the  stone  rolled  to 
the  bottom.  But  that  is  not  much  worse  than  trying 
to  teach  Caribbean  Sea  and  Mt.  Vesuvius,  if  we  can't 
really  believe  in  them.  But  here  is  Brown,  metamor- 
phosed into  a  psychologist  who  begins  with  the  known, 
yea,  delightfully  known  grapefruit  which  I  had  at 
breakfast,  and  takes  me  on  a  fascinating  excursion  till 
I  arrive,  by  alluring  stages,  at  the  related  unknown, 
the  Caribbean  Sea.  Too  bad  that  Brown  isn't  a 
teacher. 

Brown  has  the  gift  of  holding  on  to  a  thing  till  his 
craving  for  knowledge  is  satisfied.    Somewhere  he  had 
come  upon  some  question  touching  a  campanile  or, 
20 


BROWN 

possibly,  the  Campanile,  as  it  seemed  to  him.  Nor 
would  he  rest  content  until  I  had  extracted  what  the 
books  have  to  say  on  the  subject.  He  had  in  mind  the 
Campanile  at  Venice,  not  knowing  that  the  one  beside 
the  Duomo  at  Florence  is  higher  than  the  one  at 
Venice,  and  that  the  Leaning  Tower  at  Pisa  is  a  cam- 
panile, or  bell-tower,  also.  When  I  told  him  that  one 
of  my  friends  saw  the  Campanile  at  Venice  crumble 
to  a  heap  of  ruins  on  that  Sunday  morning  back  in 
1907,  and  that  another  friend  had  been  of  the  last 
party  to  go  to  the  top  of  it  the  evening  before,  he 
became  quite  excited,  and  then  I  knew  that  I  had  suc- 
ceeded in  investing  the  subject  with  human  interest, 
and  I  felt  quite  the  schoolmaster.  Nothing  of  this 
did  I  mention  to  Brown,  for  there  is  no  need  to  exploit 
the  mental  machinery  if  only  you  get  results. 

Many  people  who  travel  abroad  buy  post-cards  by 
the  score,  and  seem  to  feel  that  they  are  the  original 
discoverers  of  the  places  which  these  cards  portray, 
and  yet  these  very  places  were  the  background  of 
much  of  their  history  and  geography  in  the  schools. 
Can  it  be  that  their  teachers  failed  to  invest  these 
places  with  human  interest,  that  they  were  but  words 
in  a  book  and  not  real  to  them  at  all?  Must  I  travel 
all  the  way  to  Yellowstone  Park  to  know  a  geyser? 
Alas!  in  that  case,  many  of  us  poor  school-teachers 
must  go  through  life  geyserless.  Wondrous  tales  and 
21 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

oft  heard  I  in  my  school-days  of  glacier,  iceberg,  can- 
yon, snow-covered  mountain,  grotto,  causeway,  and 
volcano,  but  not  till  I  came  to  Grindelwald  did  I 
really  know  what  a  glacier  is.  There's  many  a  Doubt- 
ing Thomas  in  the  schools. 


22 


CHAPTER  IV 
PSYCHOLOGICAL 

THE  psychologist  is  so  insistent  in  proclaiming  his 
doctrine  of  negative  self-feeling  and  positive  self- 
feeling  that  one  is  impelled  to  listen  out  of  curiosity,  if 
nothing  else.  Then,  just  as  you  are  beginning  to  get  a 
little  glimmering  as  to  his  meaning,  another  one  begins 
to  assail  your  ears  with  a  deal  of  sesquipedalian  Eng- 
lish about  the  emotion  of  subjection  and  the  emotion 
of  elation.  Just  as  I  began  to  think  I  was  getting  a 
grip  of  the  thing  a  college  chap  came  in  and  proceeded 
to  enlighten  me  by  saying  that  these  two  emotions 
may  be  generated  only  by  personal  relations,  and  not 
by  relations  of  persons  and  things.  I  was  thinking  of 
my  emotion  of  subjection  in  the  presence  of  an  origi- 
nal problem  in  geometry,  but  this  college  person  tells 
me  that  this  negative  self-feeling,  according  to  psy- 
chology, is  experienced  only  in  the  presence  of  another 
person.  Well,  I  have  had  that  experience,  too.  In 
fact,  my  negative  self -feeling  is  of  frequent  occurrence. 
Jacob  must  have  had  a  rather  severe  attack  of  the 
emotion  of  subjection  when  he  was  trying  to  escape 
from  the  wrath  of  Esau.  But,  after  his  experience  at 
23 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

Bethel,  where  he  received  a  blessing  and  a  promise, 
there  was  a  shifting  from  the  negative  self-feeling  to 
the  positive — from  the  emotion  of  subjection  to  that 
of  elation. 

The  stone  which  Jacob  used  that  night  as  a  pillow, 
so  we  are  told,  is  called  the  Stone  of  Scone,  and  is  to 
be  seen  in  the  body  of  the  Coronation  Chair  in  West- 
minster Abbey.  The  use  of  that  stone  as  a  part  of 
the  chair  might  seem  to  be  a  psychological  coincidence, 
unless,  indeed,  we  can  conceive  that  the  fabricators  of 
the  chair  combined  a  knowledge  of  psychology  and  also 
of  the  Bible  in  its  construction.  It  is  an  interesting 
conceit,  at  any  rate,  that  the  stone  might  bring  to 
kings  and  queens  a  blessing  and  a  promise,  as  it  had 
done  for  Jacob,  averting  the  emotion  of  subjection  and 
perpetuating  the  emotion  of  elation. 

Now,  there's  Hazzard,  the  big,  glorious  Hazzard.  I 
met  him  first  on  the  deck  of  the  S.  S.  Campania,  and  I 
gladly  agreed  to  his  proposal  that  we  travel  together. 
He  is  a  large  man  (one  need  not  be  more  specific)  and 
a  veritable  steam-engine  of  activity  and  energy.  It 
was  altogether  natural,  therefore,  that  he  should 
assume  the  leadership  of  our  party  of  two  in  all  mat- 
ters touching  places,  modes  of  travel,  hotels,  and 
other  details  large  and  small,  while  I  trailed  along  in 
his  wake.  This  order  continued  for  some  days,  and  I, 
of  course,  experienced  all  the  while  the  emotion  of 
24 


PSYCHOLOGICAL 

subjection  in  some  degree.  When  we  came  to  the 
Isle  of  Man  we  puzzled  our  heads  no  little  over  the 
curious  coat  of  arms  of  that  quaint  little  country. 
This  coat  of  arms  is  three  human  legs,  equidistant 
from  one  another.  At  Peel  we  made  numerous  in- 
quiries, and  also  at  Ramsey,  but  to  no  avail.  In  the 
evening,  however,  in  the  hotel  at  Douglas  I  saw  a 
picture  of  this  coat  of  arms,  accompanied  by  the  in- 
scription, Quocumque  jeceris  stabit,  and  gave  some  sort 
of  translation  of  it.  Then  and  there  came  my  emanci- 
pation, for  after  that  I  was  consulted  and  deferred  to 
during  all  the  weeks  we  were  together.  It  is  quite 
improbable  that  Hazzard  himself  realized  any  change 
hi  our  relations,  but  unconsciously  paid  that  subtle 
tribute  to  my  small  knowledge  of  Latin.  When  we 
came  to  Stratford  I  did  not  call  upon  Miss  Marie 
Corelli,  for  I  had  heard  that  she  is  quite  averse  to 
men  as  a  class,  and  I  feared  I  might  suffer  an  emo- 
tional collapse.  I  was  so  comfortable  in  my  newly 
acquainted  emotion  of  elation  that  I  decided  to  run 
no  risks. 

When  at  length  I  resumed  my  schoolmastering  I 
determined  to  give  the  boys  and  girls  the  benefit  of 
my  recent  discovery.  I  saw  that  I  must  generate  in 
each  one,  if  possible,  the  emotion  of  elation,  that  I 
must  so  arrange  school  situations  that  mastery  would 
become  a  habit  with  them  if  they  were  to  become 
25 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

"masters  in  the  kingdom  of  life,"  as  my  friend  Long 
says  it.  I  saw  at  once  that  the  difficulties  must  be 
made  only  high  enough  to  incite  them  to  effort,  but 
not  so  high  as  to  cause  discouragement.  I  recalled  the 
sentence  in  Harvey's  Grammar:  "Milo  began  to  lift 
the  ox  when  he  was  a  calf."  After  we  had  succeeded 
in  locating  the  antecedent  of  "he"  we  learned  from 
this  sentence  a  lesson  of  value,  and  I  recalled  this  les- 
son in  my  efforts  to  inculcate  progressive  mastery  in 
the  boys  and  girls  of  my  school.  I  sometimes  deferred 
a  difficult  problem  for  a  few  days  till  they  had  lifted 
the  growing  calf  a  few  more  times,  and  then  returned 
to  it.  Some  one  says  that  everything  is  infinitely  high 
that  we  can't  see  over,  so  I  was  careful  to  arrange  the 
barriers  just  a  bit  lower  than  the  eye-line  of  my  pupils, 
and  then  raise  them  a  trifle  on  each  succeeding  day. 
In  this  way  I  strove  to  generate  the  positive  self -feeling 
so  that  there  should  be  no  depression  and  no  white 
flag.  And  that  surely  was  worth  a  trip  to  the  Isle  of 
Man,  even  if  one  failed  to  see  one  of  their  tailless  cats. 
I  had  occasion  or,  rather,  I  took  occasion  at  one 
time  to  punish  a  boy  with  a  fair  degree  of  severity 
(may  the  Lord  forgive  me),  and  now  I  know  that  in 
so  doing  I  was  guilty  of  a  grave  error.  What  I  inter- 
preted as  misconduct  was  but  a  straining  at  his  leash 
in  an  effort  to  extricate  himself  from  the  incubus  of 
the  negative  self-feeling.  He  was,  and  probably  is,  a 
26 


PSYCHOLOGICAL 

dull  fellow  and  realized  that  he  could  not  cope  with 
the  other  boys  in  the  school  studies,  and  so  was  but 
trying  to  win  some  notice  in  other  fields  of  activity. 
To  him  notoriety  was  preferable  to  obscurity.  If  I 
had  only  been  wise  I  would  have  turned  his  inclination 
to  good  account  and  might  have  helped  him  to  self- 
mastery,  if  not  to  the  mastery  of  algebra.  He  yearned 
for  the  emotion  of  elation,  and  I  was  trying  to  per- 
petuate his  emotion  of  subjection.  If  Methuselah  had 
been  a  schoolmaster  he  might  have  attained  proficiency 
by  the  time  he  reached  the  age  of  nine  hundred  and 
sixty-eight  years  if  he  had  been  a  close  observer,  a 
close  student  of  methods,  and  had  been  willing  and 
able  to  profit  by  his  own  mistakes. 

Friend  Virgil  says  something  like  this:  "They  can 
because  they  think  they  can,"  and  I  heartily  concur. 
Some  one  tells  us  that  Kent  in  "King  Lear"  got  his 
name  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  word  can  and  he  was 
aptly  named,  in  view  of  Virgil's  statement.  But  can  I 
cause  my  boys  and  girls  to  think  they  can?  Why, 
most  assuredly,  if  I  am  any  sort  of  teacher.  Other- 
wise I  ought  to  be  dealing  with  inanimate  things  and 
leave  the  school  work  to  those  who  can.  I  certainly 
can  help  young  folks  to  shift  from  the  emotion  of  sub- 
jection to  the  emotion  of  elation.  I  had  a  puppy  that 
we  called  Nick  and  thought  I'd  like  to  teach  him  to  go 
up-stairs.  When  he  came  to  the  first  stair  he  cried 
27 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

and  cowered  and  said,  in  his  language,  that  it  was  too 
high  and  that  he  could  never  do  it.  So,  in  a  soothing 
way,  I  quoted  Virgil  at  him  and  placed  his  front  paws 
upon  the  step.  Then  he  laughed  a  bit  and  said  the 
step  wasn't  as  high  as  the  moon,  after  all.  So  I  patted 
him  and  called  him  a  brave  little  chap,  and  he  gained 
the  higher  level.  Then  we  rested  for  a  bit  and  spent 
the  time  in  being  glad,  for  Nick  and  I  had  read  our 
"Pollyanna"  and  had  learned  the  trick  of  gladness. 
Well,  before  the  day  was  over  that  puppy  could  go  up 
the  stairs  without  the  aid  of  a  teacher,  and  a  gladder 
dog  never  was.  If  I  had  taken  as  much  pains  with 
that  boy  as  I  did  with  Nick  I'd  feel  far  more  comfort- 
able right  now,  and  the  boy  would  have  felt  more 
comfortable  both  then  and  after.  0  schoolmastering ! 
How  many  sins  are  committed  in  thy  name!  I  suc- 
ceeded with  the  puppy,  but  failed  with  the  boy.  A 
boy  does  not  go  to  school  to  study  algebra,  but  studies 
algebra  to  learn  mastery.  I  know  this  now,  but  did 
not  know  it  then,  more's  the  pity ! 

I  had  another  valuable  lesson  in  this  phase  of  ped- 
agogy the  day  my  friend  Vance  and  I  sojourned  to 
Indianapolis  to  call  upon  Mr.  Benjamin  Harrison, 
who  had  somewhat  recently  completed  his  term  as 
President  of  the  United  States.  We  were  fortified 
with  ample  and  satisfactory  credentials  and  had  a 
very  fortunate  introduction;  but  for  all  that  we  were 
28 


PSYCHOLOGICAL 

inclined  to  walk  softly  into  the  presence  of  greatness, 
and  had  a  somewhat  acute  attack  of  negative  self- 
feeling.  However,  after  due  exchange  of  civilities,  we 
succeeded  somehow  in  preferring  the  request  that  had 
brought  us  into  his  presence,  and  Mr.  Harrison's  reply 
served  to  reassure  us.  Said  he:  "Oh,  no,  boys,  I 
couldn't  do  that;  last  year  I  promised  Bok  to  write 
some  articles  for  his  journal,  and  I  didn't  have  any 
fun  all  summer."  His  two  words,  "boys"  and  "fun," 
were  the  magic  ones  that  caused  the  tension  to  relax 
and  generated  the  emotion  of  elation.  We  then  sat 
back  hi  our  chairs  and,  possibly,  crossed  our  legs — I 
can't  be  certain  as  to  that.  At  any  rate,  hi  a  single 
sentence  this  man  had  made  us  his  co-ordinates  and 
caused  the  negative  self-feeling  to  vanish.  Then  for 
a  good  half-hour  he  talked  in  a  familiar  way  about 
great  affairs,  and  hi  a  style  that  charmed.  He  told 
us  of  a  call  he  had  the  day  before  from  David  Starr 
Jordan,  who  came  to  report  his  experience  as  a  mem- 
ber of  the  commission  that  had  been  appointed  to  ad- 
judicate the  controversy  between  the  United  States 
and  England  touching  seal-fishing  hi  the  Behring  Sea. 
It  may  be  recalled  that  this  commission  consisted  of 
two  Americans,  two  Englishmen,  and  King  Oscar  of 
Sweden.  Mr.  Harrison  told  us  quite  frankly  that  he 
felt  a  mistake  had  been  made  in  making  up  the  com- 
mission, for,  with  two  Americans  and  two  Englishmen 
29 


on  the  commission,  the  sole  arbiter  in  reality  was  King 
Oscar,  since  the  other  four  were  reduced  to  the  plane 
of  mere  advocates;  but,  had  there  been  three  Ameri- 
cans and  two  Englishmen,  or  two  Americans  and 
three  Englishmen,  the  function  of  all  would  have  been 
clearly  judicial.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  this  great  man 
made  us  forget  our  emotion  of  subjection,  and  so 
made  us  feel  that  he  would  have  been  a  great  teacher, 
just  as  he  was  a  great  statesman.  I  shall  always  be 
grateful  for  the  lesson  he  taught  me  and,  besides,  I 
am  glad  that  the  college  chap  came  in  and  gave  me 
that  psychological  massage. 


30 


CHAPTER  V. 
BALKING 

"I  \  7HEN  I  write  my  book  on  farm  pedagogy  I  shall 
*  »  certainly  make  large  use  of  the  horse  in  illus- 
trating the  fundamental  principles,  for  he  is  a  noble 
animal  and  altogether  worthy  of  the  fullest  recogni- 
tion. We  often  use  the  expression  "horse-sense" 
somewhat  flippantly,  but  I  have  often  seen  a  driver 
who  would  have  been  a  more  useful  member  of  society 
if  he  had  had  as  much  sense  as  the  horses  he  was 
driving.  If  I  were  making  a  catalogue  of  the  "lower 
animals"  I'd  certainly  include  the  man  who  abuses 
a  horse.  Why,  the  celebrated  German  trick-horse, 
Hans,  had  even  the  psychologists  baffled  for  a  long 
time,  but  finally  he  taught  them  a  big  chapter  in  psy- 
chology. They  finally  discovered  that  his  marvellous 
tricks  were  accomplished  through  the  power  of  close 
observation.  Facial  expression,  twitching  of  a  muscle, 
movements  of  the  head,  these  were  the  things  he 
watched  for  as  his  cue  in  answering  questions  by  in- 
dicating the  right  card.  There  was  a  teacher  in  our 
school  once  who  wore  old-fashioned  spectacles.  When 
he  wanted  us  to  answer  a  question  in  a  certain  way 
31 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

he  unconsciously  looked  over  his  spectacles;  but  when 
he  wanted  a  different  answer  he  raised  his  spectacles 
to  his  forehead.  So  we  ranked  high  in  our  daily 
grades,  but  met  our  Waterloo  when  the  examination 
came  around.  That  teacher,  of  course,  had  never 
heard  of  the  horse  Hans,  and  so  was  not  aware  that 
in  the  process  of  watching  his  movements  we  were 
merely  proving  that  we  had  horse-sense.  He  probably 
attributed  our  ready  answers  to  the  superiority  of  his 
teaching,  not  realizing  that  our  minds  were  concen- 
trated upon  the  subject  of  spectacles. 

Of  course,  a  horse  balks  now  and  then,  and  so  does 
a  boy.  I  did  a  bit  of  balking  myself  as  a  boy,  and  I 
am  not  quite  certain  that  I  have  even  yet  become  im- 
mune. Doctor  James  Wallace  (whose  edition  of  "Anab- 
asis" some  of  us  have  read,  halting  and  stumbling 
along  through  the  parasangs)  with  three  companions 
went  out  to  Marathon  one  day  from  Athens.  The 
distance,  as  I  recall  it,  is  about  twenty-two  miles,  and 
they  left  early  in  the  morning,  so  as  to  return  the 
same  day.  Their  conveyance  was  an  open  wagon  with 
two  horses  attached.  When  they  had  gone  a  mile  or 
two  out  of  town  one  of  the  horses  balked  and  refused 
to  proceed.  Then  and  there  each  member  of  the  party 
drew  upon  his  past  experiences,  seeking  a  panacea  for 
the  equine  delinquency.  One  suggested  the  plan  of 
building  a  fire  under  the  recalcitrant  horse,  while  an- 
32 


BALKING 

other  suggested  pouring  sand  into  his  ears.  Doctor 
Wallace  discouraged  these  remedies  as  being  cruel  and 
finally  told  the  others  to  take  their  places  in  the  wagon 
and  he  would  try  the  merits  of  a  plan  he  had  in  mind. 
Accordingly,  when  they  were  seated,  he  clambered 
over  the  dash,  walked  along  the  wagon-pole,  and  sud- 
denly plumped  himself  down  upon  the  horse's  back. 
Then  away  they  went,  John  Gilpin  like,  Doctor  Wal- 
lace's coat-tails  and  hair  streaming  out  behind. 

There  was  no  more  balking  in  the  course  of  the  trip, 
and  no  one  (save,  possibly,  the  horse)  had  any  twinges 
of  conscience  to  keep  him  awake  that  night.  The  in- 
cident is  brimful  of  pedagogy  in  that  it  shows  that, 
in  order  to  cure  a  horse  of  an  attack  of  balking,  you 
have  but  to  distract  his  mind  from  his  balking  and 
get  him  to  thinking  of  something  else.  Before  this 
occurrence  taught  me  the  better  way,  I  was  quite 
prone,  in  dealing  with  a  balking  boy,  to  hold  his  mind 
upon  the  subject  of  balking.  I  told  him  how  un- 
seemly it  was,  how  humiliated  his  father  and  mother 
would  be,  how  he  could  not  grow  up  to  be  a  useful 
citizen  if  he  yielded  to  such  tantrums;  in  short,  I  ran 
the  gamut  of  all  the  pedagogical  bromides,  and  so 
kept  his  mind  centred  upon  balking.  Now  that  I 
have  learned  better,  I  strive  to  divert  his  mind  to 
something  else,  and  may  ask  him  to  go  upon  some 
pleasant  errand  that  he  may  gain  some  new  experi- 
33 


REVERIES   OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

ences.  When  he  returns  he  has  forgotten  that  he  was 
balking  and  recounts  his  experiences  most  delightfully. 

Ed  was  one  of  the  balkiest  boys  I  ever  had  in  my 
school.  His  attacks  would  often  last  for  days,  and 
the  more  attention  you  paid  to  him  the  worse  he 
balked.  In  the  midst  of  one  of  these  violent  and  pro- 
longed attacks  a  lady  came  to  school  who,  in  the  kind- 
ness of  her  generous  nature,  was  proposing  to  give  a 
boy  Joe  (now  a  city  alderman)  a  Christmas  present 
of  a  new  hat.  She  came  to  invoke  my  aid  in  trying 
to  discover  the  size  of  Joe's  head.  I  readily  under- 
took the  task,  which  loomed  larger  and  larger  as  I 
came  fully  to  realize  that  I  was  the  sole  member  of 
the  committee  of  ways  and  means.  In  my  dire  per- 
plexity I  saw  Ed  grouching  along  the  hall.  Calling 
him  to  one  side,  I  explained  to  the  last  detail  the  whole 
case,  and  confessed  that  I  did  not  know  how  to  pro- 
ceed. At  once  his  face  brightened,  and  he  readily 
agreed  to  make  the  discovery  for  me;  and  in  half  an 
hour  I  had  the  information  I  needed  and  Ed's  face 
was  luminous.  Yes,  Joe  got  the  hat  and  Ed  quit 
balking.  If  Doctor  Wallace  had  not  gone  to  Mara- 
thon that  day  I  can  scarcely  imagine  what  might  have 
happened  to  Ed;  and  Joe  might  not  have  received  a 
new  hat. 

I  have  often  wondered  whether  a  horse  has  a  sense 
of  humor.  I  know  a  boy  has,  and  I  very  strongly 
34 


BALKING 

suspect  that  the  horse  has.  It  was  one  of  my  tasks 
in  boyhood  to  take  the  horses  down  to  the  creek  for 
water.  Among  others  we  had  a  roan  two-year-old 
colt  that  we  called  Dick,  and  even  yet  I  think  of  him 
as  quite  capable  of  laughter  at  some  of  his  own  mis- 
chievous pranks.  One  day  I  took  him  to  water,  dis- 
pensing with  the  formalities  of  a  bridle,  and  riding 
him  down  through  the  orchard  with  no  other  habili- 
ments than  a  rope  halter.  In  the  orchard  were  several 
trees  of  the  bellflower  variety,  whose  branches  sagged 
near  to  the  ground.  Dick  was  going  along  very  deco- 
rously and  sedately,  as  if  he  were  studying  the  golden 
text  or  something  equally  absorbing,  when,  all  at  once, 
some  spirit  of  mischief  seemed  to  possess  him  and 
away  he  bolted,  willy-nilly,  right  under  the  low-hang- 
ing branches  of  one  of  those  trees.  Of  course,  I  was 
raked  fore  and  aft,  and,  while  I  did  not  imitate  the 
example  of  Absalom,  I  afforded  a  fairly  good  imita- 
tion, with  the  difference  that,  through  many  trials  and 
tribulations,  I  finally  reached  the  ground.  Needless  to 
say  that  I  was  a  good  deal  of  a  wreck,  with  my  cloth- 
ing much  torn  and  my  hands  and  face  not  only  much 
torn  but  also  bleeding.  After  relieving  himself  of  his 
burden,  Dick  meandered  on  down  to  the  creek  in 
leisurely  fashion,  where  I  came  upon  him  in  due  time 
enjoying  a  lunch  of  grass. 

Walking  toward  the  creek,  sore  in  body  and  spirit, 
35 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

I  fully  made  up  my  mind  to  have  a  talk  with  that  colt 
that  he  would  not  soon  forget.  He  had  put  shame 
upon  me,  and  I  determined  to  tell  him  so.  But  when 
I  came  upon  him  looking  so  lamblike  in  his  innocence, 
and  when  I  imagined  that  I  heard  him  chuckle  at  my 
plight,  my  resolution  evaporated,  and  I  realized  that 
in  a  trial  of  wits  he  had  got  the  better  of  me.  More- 
over, I  conceded  right  there  that  he  had  a  right  to 
laugh,  and  especially  when  he  saw  me  so  superlatively 
scrambled.  He  had  beaten  me  on  my  own  ground 
and  convicted  me  of  knowing  less  than  a  horse,  so  I 
could  but  yield  the  palm  to  him  with  what  grace  I 
could  command.  Many  a  time  since  that  day  have 
I  been  unhorsed,  and  by  a  mere  boy  who  laughed  at 
my  discomfiture.  But  I  learned  my  lesson  from  Dick 
and  have  always  tried,  though  grimly,  to  applaud  the 
victor  in  the  tournament  of  wits.  Only  so  could  I 
hold  the  respect  of  the  boy,  not  to  mention  my  own. 
If  a  boy  sets  a  trap,  for  me  and  I  walk  into  it,  well,  if 
he  doesn't  laugh  at  me  he  isn't  much  of  a  boy;  and  if 
I  can't  laugh  with  him  I  am  not  much  of  a  school- 
master. 


36 


CHAPTER  VI 
LANTERNS 

I  MAY  be  mistaken,  but  my  impression  is  that 
"The  Light  of  the  World,"  by  Holman  Hunt,  is 
the  only  celebrated  picture  in  the  world  of  which  there 
are  two  originals.  One  of  these  may  be  seen  at  Ox- 
ford and  the  other  in  St.  Paul's,  London.  Neither  is 
a  copy  of  the  other,  and  yet  they  are  both  alike,  so 
far  as  one  may  judge  without  having  them  side  by 
side.  The  picture  represents  Christ  standing  at  a 
door  knocking,  with  a  lantern  in  one  hand  from  which 
light  is  streaming.  When  I  think  of  a  lantern  the 
mind  instantly  flashes  to  this  picture,  to  Diogenes 
and  his  lantern,  and  to  the  old  tin  lantern  with  its 
perforated  cylinder  which  I  used  to  carry  out  to  the 
barn  to  arrange  the  bed-chambers  for  the  horses.  All 
my  life  have  I  been  hearing  folks  speak  of  the  asso- 
ciation of  ideas  as  if  one  idea  could  conjure  up  innu- 
merable others.  The  lantern  that  I  carried  to  the 
barn  never  could  have  been  associated  with  Diogenes 
if  I  had  not  read  of  the  philosopher,  nor  with  the  pic- 
ture at  Oxford  if  I  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  it.  In 
order  that  we  have  association  of  ideas,  we  must  first 
have  the  ideas,  according  to  my  way  of  thinking. 
37 


REVERIES   OF  A   SCHOOLMASTER 

Thus  it  chanced  that  when  I  came  upon  some  refer- 
ence to  Holman  Hunt  and  his  great  masterpiece,  my 
mind  glanced  over  to  the  cynical  philosopher  and  his 
lantern.  The  more  I  ponder  over  that  lantern  the 
more  puzzled  I  become  as  to  its  real  significance.  The 
popular  notion  is  that  it  is  meant  to  show  how  difficult 
it  was  in  his  day  to  find  an  honest  man.  But  popular 
conceptions  are  sometimes  superficial  ones,  and  if 
Diogenes  was  the  philosopher  we  take  him  to  have 
been  there  must  have  been  more  to  that  lantern  than 
the  mere  eccentricity  of  the  man  who  carried  it.  If 
we  could  go  back  of  the  lantern  we  might  find  the 
cynic's  definition  of  honesty,  and  that  would  be  worth 
knowing.  Back  home  we  used  to  say  that  an  honest 
man  is  one  who  pays  his  debts  and  has  due  respect 
for  property  rights.  Perhaps  Diogenes  had  gone  more 
deeply  into  the  matter  of  paying  debts  as  a  mark  of 
honesty  than  those  who  go  no  further  in  their  think- 
ing than  the  grocer,  the  butcher,  and  the  tax-man. 

This  all  tends  to  set  me  thinking  of  my  own  debts 
and  the  possibility  of  full  payment.  I'm  just  a  school- 
master and  people  rather  expect  me  to  be  somewhat 
visionary  or  even  fantastic  in  my  notions.  But,  with 
due  allowance  for  my  vagaries,  I  cannot  rid  myself  of 
the  feeling  that  I  am  deeply  in  debt  to  somebody  for 
the  Venus  de  Milo.  She  has  the  reputation  of  being 
the  very  acme  of  sculpture,  and  certainly  the  Parisians 
38 


LANTERNS 

so  regard  her  or  they  would  not  pay  her  such  a  high 
tribute  in  the  way  of  space  and  position.  She  is  the 
focus  of  that  whole  wonderful  gallery.  No  one  has 
ever  had  the  boldness  to  give  her  a  place  in  the  market 
quotations,  but  I  can  regale  myself  with  her  beauty 
for  a  mere  pittance.  This  pittance  does  not  at  all 
cancel  my  indebtedness,  and  I  come  away  feeling  that 
I  still  owe  something  to  somebody,  without  in  the 
least  knowing  who  it  is  or  how  I  am  to  pay.  I  can't 
even  have  the  poor  satisfaction  of  making  proper  ac- 
knowledgment to  the  sculptor. 

I  can  acknowledge  my  obligation  to  Michael  Angelo 
for  the  Sistine  ceiling,  but  that  doesn't  cancel  my 
indebtedness  by  any  means.  It  took  me  fifteen  years 
to  find  the  Cumaean  Sibyl.  I  had  seen  a  reproduction 
of  this  lady  in  some  book,  and  had  become  much  in- 
terested in  her  generous  physique,  her  brawny  arms, 
her  wide-spreading  toes,  and  her  look  of  concentration 
as  she  delves  into  the  mysteries  of  the  massive  volume 
before  her.  Naturally  I  became  curious  as  to  the 
original,  and  wondered  if  I  should  ever  meet  her  face 
to  face.  Then  one  day  I  was  lying  on  my  back  on  a 
wooden  bench  in  the  Sistine  Chapel,  having  duly  apol- 
ogized for  my  violation  of  the  conventions,  when, 
wonder  of  wonders,  there  was  the  Cumaean  Sibyl  in 
full  glory  right  before  my  eyes,  and  the  quest  of  all 
those  years  was  ended  in  triumph.  True,  the  Sibyl 
39 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

does  not  compare  in  greatness  with  the  "Creation  of 
Adam"  in  one  of  the  central  panels,  but  for  all  that 
I  was  glad  to  have  her  definitely  localized. 

I  have  never  got  it  clearly  figured  out  just  how  the 
letters  of  the  alphabet  were  evolved,  nor  who  did  the 
work,  but  I  go  right  on  using  them  as  if  I  had  evolved 
them  myself.  They  seem  to  be  my  own  personal  prop- 
erty, and  I  jostle  them  about  quite  careless  of  the  fact 
that  some  one  gave  them  to  me.  I  can't  see  how  I 
could  get  on  without  them,  and  yet  I  have  never  ad- 
mitted any  obligation  to  their  author.  The  same  is 
true  of  the  digits.  I  make  constant  use  of  them,  and 
sometimes  even  abuse  them,  as  if  I  had  a  clear  title 
to  them.  I  have  often  wondered  who  worked  out  the 
table  of  logarithms,  and  have  thought  how  much  more 
agreeable  life  has  been  for  many  people  because  of  his 
work.  I  know  my  own  debt  to  him  is  large,  and  I 
dare  say  many  others  have  a  like  feeling.  Even  the 
eighth-grade  boys  in  the  Castle  Road  school,  London, 
share  this  feeling,  doubtless,  for  in  a  test  in  arithmetic 
that  I  saw  there  I  noted  that  in  four  of  the  twelve 
problems  set  for  solution  they  had  permission  to  use 
their  table  of  logarithms.  They  probably  got  home 
earlier  for  supper  by  their  use  of  this  table. 

I  hereby  make  my  humble  apologies  to  Mr.  Thomas 
A.  Edison  for  my  thoughtlessness  in  not  writing  to 
him  before  this  to  thank  him  for  his  many  acts  of 
40 


LANTERNS 

kindness  to  me.  I  have  been  exceedingly  careless  in 
the  matter.  I  owe  him  for  the  comfort  and  conveni- 
ence of  this  beautiful  electric  light,  and  yet  have  never 
mentioned  the  matter  to  him.  He  has  a  right  to  think 
me  an  ingrate.  I  have  been  so  busy  enjoying  the 
gifts  he  has  sent  me  that  I  have  been  negligent  of  the 
giver.  As  I  think  of  all  my  debts  to  scientists,  in- 
ventors, artists,  poets,  and  statesmen,  and  consider 
how  impossible  it  is  for  me  to  pay  all  my  debts  to  all 
these,  try  as  I  may,  I  begin  to  see  how  difficult  it  was 
for  Diogenes  to  find  a  man  who  paid  all  his  debts  in 
full.  Hence,  the  lantern. 

It  seems  to  me  that,  of  the  varieties  of  late  potatoes 
the  Carmen  is  the  premier.  Part  of  the  charm  of 
hoeing  potatoes  lies  in  anticipating  the  joys  of  the 
potato  properly  baked.  Charles  Lamb  may  write  of 
his  roast  pig,  and  the  epicures  among  the  ancients 
may  expatiate  upon  the  glories  of  a  dish  of  peacock's 
tongues  and  their  other  rare  and  costly  edibles,  but 
they  probably  never  knew  to  what  heights  one  may 
ascend  in  the  scale  of  gastronomic  joys  in  the  imme- 
diate presence  of  a  baked  Carmen.  When  it  is  broken 
open  the  steam  ascends  like  incense  from  an  altar, 
while  at  the  magic  touch  the  snowy,  flaky  substance 
billows  forth  upon  the  plate  in  a  drift  that  would 
inspire  the  pen  of  a  poet.  The  further  preliminaries 
amount  to  a  ceremony.  There  can  be,  there  must  be 
41 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

no  haste.  The  whole  summer  lies  back  of  this  mo- 
ment. There  on  the  plate  are  weeks  of  golden  sun- 
shine, interwoven  with  the  singing  of  birds  and  the 
fragrance  of  flowers;  and  it  were  sacrilege  to  become 
hurried  at  the  consummation.  When  the  meat  has 
been  made  fine  the  salt  and  pepper  are  applied,  delib- 
erately, daintily,  and  then  comes  the  butter,  like  the 
golden  glow  of  sunset  upon  a  bank  of  flaky  clouds. 
The  artist  tries  in  vain  to  rival  this  blending  of  colors 
and  shades.  But  the  supreme  moment  and  the  climax 
come  when  the  feast  is  glorified  and  set  apart  by  its 
baptism  of  cream.  At  such  a  moment  the  sense  of 
my  indebtedness  to  the  man  who  developed  the  Car- 
men becomes  most  acute.  If  the  leaders  of  contend- 
ing armies  could  sit  together  at  this  table  and  join  in 
this  gracious  ceremony,  their  rancor  and  enmity  would 
cease,  the  protocol  would  be  signed,  and  there  would 
ensue  a  proclamation  of  peace.  Then  the  whole  world 
would  recognize  its  debt  to  the  man  who  produced 
this  potato. 

Having  eaten  the  peace-producing  potato,  I  feel 
strengthened  to  make  another  trial  at  an  interpreta- 
tion of  that  lantern.  I  do  not  know  whether  Diogenes 
had  any  acquaintance  with  the  Decalogue,  but  have 
my  doubts.  In  fact,  history  gives  us  too  few  data 
concerning  his  attainments  for  a  clear  exposition  of 
his  character.  But  one  may  hazard  a  guess  that  he 
42 


LANTERNS 

was  looking  for  a  man  who  would  not  steal,  but  could 
not  find  him.  In  a  sense  that  was  a  high  compliment 
to  the  people  of  his  day,  for  there  is  a  sort  of  stealing 
that  takes  rank  among  the  fine  arts.  In  fact,  stealing 
is  the  greatest  subject  that  is  taught  in  the  school.  I 
cannot  recall  a  teacher  who  did  not  encourage  me  to 
strive  for  mastery  in  this  art.  Every  one  of  them  ap- 
plauded my  every  success  in  this  line.  One  of  my 
early  triumphs  was  reciting  "Horatius  at  the  Bridge," 
and  my  teacher  almost  smothered  me  with  praise.  I 
simply  took  what  Macaulay  had  written  and  made  it 
my  own.  I  had  some  difficulty  in  making  off  with 
the  conjugation  of  the  Greek  verb,  but  the  more  I 
took  of  it  the  more  my  teacher  seemed  pleased.  All 
along  the  line  I  have  been  encouraged  to  appropriate 
what  others  have  produced  and  to  take  joy  in  my 
pilfering.  Mr.  Carnegie  has  lent  his  sanction  to  this 
sort  of  thing  by  fostering  libraries.  Shakespeare  was 
arrested  for  stealing  a  deer,  but  extolled  for  stealing 
the  plots  of  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  "Comedy  of  Errors," 
and  others  of  his  plays.  It  seems  quite  all  right  to 
steal  ideas,  or  even  thoughts,  and  this  may  account 
again  for  the  old  man's  lantern.  But,  even  so,  it  would 
seem  quite  iconoclastic  to  say  that  education  is  the 
process  of  reminding  people  of  their  debts  and  of 
training  them  to  steal. 


43 


CHAPTER  VII 
COMPLETE  LIVING 

TN  my  quiet  way  I  have  been  making  inquiries 
•*•  among  my  acquaintances  for  a  long  time,  trying 
to  find  out  what  education  really  is.  As  a  school- 
master I  must  try  to  make  it  appear  that  I  know.  In 
fact,  I  am  quite  a  Sir  Oracle  on  the  subject  of  educa- 
tion in  my  school.  But,  in  the  quiet  of  my  den,  after 
the  day's  work  is  done,  I  often  long  for  some  one  to 
come  in  and  tell  me  just  what  it  is.  I  am  fairly  con- 
versant with  the  multiplication  table  and  can  distin- 
guish between  active  and  passive  verbs,  but  even  with 
these  attainments  I  somehow  feel  that  I  have  not 
gone  to  the  extreme  limits  of  the  meaning  of  educa- 
tion. In  reality,  I  don't  know  what  it  is  or  what  it  is 
for.  I  do  wish  that  the  man  who  says  in  his  book 
that  education  is  a  preparation  for  complete  living 
would  come  into  this  room  right  now,  sit  down  in  that 
chair,  and  tell  me,  man  to  man,  what  complete  living 
is.  I  want  to  know  and  think  I  have  a  right  to  know. 
Besides,  he  has  no  right  to  withhold  this  information 
from  me.  He  had  no  right  to  get  me  all  stirred  up 
with  his  definition,  and  then  go  away  and  leave  me 
44 


COMPLETE  LIVING 

dangling  in  the  air.  If  he  were  here  I'd  ask  him  a  few 
pointed  questions.  I'd  ask  him  to  tell  me  just  how 
the  fact  that  seven  times  nine  is  sixty-three  is  con- 
nected up  with  complete  living.  I'd  want  him  to  ex- 
plain, too,  what  the  binomial  theorem  has  to  do  with 
complete  living,  and  also  the  dative  of  reference.  I 
got  the  notion,  when  I  was  struggling  with  that  bi- 
nomial theorem,  that  it  would  ultimately  lead  on  to 
fame  or  fortune;  but  it  hasn't  done  either,  so  far  as  I 
can  make  out. 

There  was  a  time  when  I  could  solve  an  equation  of 
three  unknown  quantities,  and  could  even  jimmy  a 
quantity  out  from  under  a  radical  sign,  and  had  the 
feeling  that  I  was  quite  a  fellow.  Then  one  day  I 
went  into  a  bookstore  to  buy  a  book.  I  had  quite 
enough  money  to  pay  for  one,  and  had  somehow  got 
the  notion  that  a  boy  of  my  attainments  ought  to 
have  a  book.  But,  hi  the  presence  of  the  blond  chap 
behind  the  counter,  I  was  quite  abashed,  for  I  did 
not  in  the  least  know  what  book  I  wanted.  I  knew 
it  wasn't  a  Bible,  for  we  had  one  at  home,  but  further 
than  that  I  could  not  go.  Now,  if  knowing  how  to 
buy  a  book  is  a  part  of  complete  living,  then,  in  that 
blond  presence,  I  was  hopelessly  adrift.  I  had  been 
taught  that  gambling  is  wrong,  but  there  was  a  situa- 
tion where  I  had  to  take  a  chance  or  show  the  white 
feather.  Of  course,  I  took  the  chance  and  was  re- 
45 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

lieved  of  my  money  by  a  blond  who  may  or  may 
not  have  been  able  to  solve  radicals.  I  shall  not  give 
the  title  of  the  book  I  drew  in  that  lottery,  for  this 
is  neither  the  time  nor  the  place  for  confessions. 

I  was  a  book-agent  for  one  summer,  but  am  try- 
ing to  live  it  down.  Hoping  to  sell  a  copy  of  the  book 
whose  glowing  description  I  had  memorized,  I  called 
at  the  home  of  a  wealthy  farmer.  The  house  was 
spacious  and  embowered  in  beautiful  trees  and  shrub- 
bery. There  was  a  noble  driveway  that  led  up  from 
the  country  road,  and  everything  betokened  great 
prosperity.  Once  inside  the  house,  I  took  a  survey  of 
the  fittings  and  could  see  at  once  that  the  farmer 
had  lavished  money  upon  the  home  to  make  it  dis- 
tinctive in  the  neighborhood  as  a  suitable  background 
for  his  wife  and  daughters.  The  piano  alone  must 
have  cost  a  small  fortune,  and  it  was  but  one  of  the 
many  instruments  to  be  seen.  There  were  carpets, 
rugs,  and  curtains  in  great  profusion,  and  a  bewilder- 
ing array  of  all  sorts  of  bric-a-brac.  In  time  the 
father  asked  one  of  the  daughters  to  play,  and  she  re- 
sponded with  rather  unbecoming  alacrity.  What  she 
played  I  shall  never  know,  but  it  seemed  to  me  to  be 
a  five-finger  exercise.  Whatever  it  was,  it  was  not 
music.  I  lost  interest  at  once  and  so  had  time  to 
make  a  more  critical  inspection  of  the  decorations. 
What  I  saw  was  a  battle  royal.  There  was  the  utmost 
46 


COMPLETE  LIVING 

lack  of  harmony.  The  rugs  fought  the  carpets,  and 
both  were  at  the  throats  of  the  curtains.  Then  the 
wall-paper  joined  hi  the  fray,  and  the  din  and  confusion 
was  torture  to  the  spirit.  Even  the  furniture  caught 
the  spirit  of  discord  and  made  fierce  attacks  upon 
everything  else  in  the  room.  The  reds,  and  yellows, 
and  blues,  and  greens  whirled  and  swirled  about  in 
such  a  dizzy  and  belligerent  fashion  that  I  wondered 
how  the  people  ever  managed  to  escape  nervous  pros- 
tration. But  the  daughter  went  right  on  with  the 
five-finger  exercise  as  if  nothing  else  were  happen- 
ing. I  shall  certainly  cite  this  case  when  the  man 
comes  in  to  explain  what  he  means  by  complete 
living. 

This  all  reminds  me  of  the  man  of  wealth  who 
thought  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  give  his  neighbors 
some  benefit  of  his  money  in  the  way  of  pleasure. 
So  he  went  to  Europe  and  bought  a  great  quantity 
of  marble  statuary  and  had  the  pieces  placed  hi  the 
spacious  grounds  about  his  home.  When  the  open- 
ing day  came  there  ensued  much  suppressed  tittering 
and,  now  and  then,  an  uncontrollable  guffaw.  Diana, 
Venus,  Vulcan,  Apollo,  Jove,  and  Mercury  had  evi- 
dently stumbled  into  a  convention  of  nymphs,  satyrs, 
fairies,  sprites,  furies,  harpies,  gargoyles,  giants,  pyg- 
mies, muses,  and  fates.  The  result  was  bedlam. 
Parenthetically,  I  have  often  wondered  how  much 
47 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

money  it  cost  that  man  to  make  the  discovery  that 
he  was  not  a  connoisseur  of  art,  and  also  what  process 
of  education  might  have  fitted  him  for  a  wise  expendi- 
ture of  all  that  money. 

So  I  go  on  wondering  what  education  is,  and  no- 
body seems  quite  willing  to  tell  me.  I  bought  some 
wall-paper  once,  and  when  it  had  been  hung  there 
was  so  much  laughter  at  my  taste,  or  lack  of  it,  that, 
in  my  chagrin,  I  selected  another  pattern  to  cover 
up  the  evidence  of  my  ignorance.  But  that  is  ex- 
pensive, and  a  schoolmaster  can  ill  afford  such  luxu- 
rious ignorance.  People  were  unkind  enough  to  say 
that  the  bare  wall  would  have  been  preferable  to  my 
first  selection  of  paper.  I  was  made  conscious  that 
complete  living  was  impossible  so  long  as  that  paper 
was  visible.  But  even  when  the  original  had  been 
covered  up  I  looked  at  the  wall  suspiciously  to  see 
whether  it  would  show  through  as  a  sort  of  subdued 
accusation  against  me.  I  don't  pretend  to  know 
whether  taste  in  the  selection  of  wall-paper  is  inherent 
or  acquired.  If  it  can  be  acquired,  then  I  wonder, 
again,  just  how  cube  root  helps  it  along. 

I  don't  know  what  education  is,  but  I  do  know  that 
it  is  expensive.  I  had  some  pictures  in  my  den  that 
seemed  well  enough  till  I  came  to  look  at  some  others, 
and  then  they  seemed  cheap  and  inadequate.  I  tried 
to  argue  myself  out  of  this  feeling,  but  did  not  succeed. 
48 


COMPLETE  LIVING 

As  a  result,  the  old  pictures  have  been  supplanted  by 
new  ones,  and  I  am  poorer  in  consequence.  But,  in 
spite  of  my  depleted  purse,  I  take  much  pleasure  in 
my  new  possessions  and  feel  that  they  are  indications 
of  progress.  I  wonder,  though,  how  long  it  will  be 
till  I  shall  want  still  other  and  better  ones.  Educa- 
tion may  be  a  good  thing,  but  it  does  increase  and 
multiply  one's  wants.  Then,  in  a  brief  time,  these 
wants  become  needs,  and  there  you  have  perpetual 
motion.  When  the  agent  came  to  me  first  to  try  to 
get  me  interested  in  an  encyclopaedia  I  could  scarce 
refrain  from  smiling.  But  later  on  I  began  to  want 
an  encyclopaedia,  and  now  the  one  I  have  ranks  as  a 
household  necessity  the  same  as  bathtub,  coffee-pot, 
and  tooth-brush. 

But,  try  as  I  may,  I  can't  clearly  distinguish  be- 
tween wants  and  needs.  I  see  a  thing  that  I  want, 
and  the  very  next  day  I  begin  to  wonder  how  I  can 
possibly  get  on  without  it.  This  must  surely  be  the 
psychology  of  show-windows  and  show-cases.  If  I 
didn't  see  the  article  I  should  feel  no  want  of  it,  of 
course.  But  as  soon  as  I  see  it  I  begin  to  want  it,  and 
then  I  think  I  need  it.  The  county  fair  is  a  great 
psychological  institution,  because  it  causes  people  to 
want  things  and  then  to  think  they  need  them.  The 
worst  of  it  is  the  less  able  I  am  to  buy  a  thing  the 
more  I  want  it  and  seem  to  need  it.  I'd  like  to  have 
49 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

money  enough  to  make  an  experiment  on  myself  just 
to  see  if  I  could  ever  reach  the  point,  as  did  the 
Caliph,  where  the  only  want  I'd  have  would  be  a  want. 
Possibly,  that's  what  the  man  means  by  complete 
living.  I  wonder. 


50 


CHAPTER  VIII 
MY  SPEECH 

PR  some  time  I  have  had  it  in  mind  to  make  a 
speech.  I  don't  know  what  I  would  say  nor 
where  I  could  possibly  find  an  audience,  but,  in  spite 
of  all  that,  I  feel  that  I'd  like  to  try  myself  out  on  a 
speech.  I  can't  trace  this  feeling  back  to  its  source. 
It  may  have  started  when  I  heard  a  good  speech, 
somewhere,  or,  it  may  have  started  when  I  heard  a 
poor  one.  I  can't  recall.  When  I  hear  a  good  speech 
I  feel  that  I'd  like  to  do  as  well;  and,  when  I  hear  a 
poor  one,  I  feel  that  I'd  like  to  do  better.  The  only 
thing  that  is  settled,  as  yet,  about  this  speech  that  I 
want  to  make  is  the  subject,  and  even  that  is  not 
my  own.  It  is  just  near  enough  my  own,  however, 
to  obviate  the  use  of  quotation-marks.  The  hardest 
part  of  the  task  of  writing  or  speaking  is  to  gain  credit 
for  what  some  one  else  has  said  or  written,  and  still 
be  able  to  omit  quotation-marks.  That  calls  for  both 
mental  and  ethical  dexterity  of  a  high  order. 

But  to  the  speech.     The  subject  is  Dialectic  Ef- 
ficiency— without  quotation-marks,  be  it  noted.    The 
way  of  it  is  this:  I  have  been  reading,  or,  rather, 
trying  to  read  the  masterly  book  by  Doctor  Fletcher 
51 


REVERIES  OF  A   SCHOOLMASTER 

Durell,  whose  title  is  "Fundamental  Sources  of  Ef- 
ficiency." This  is  one  of  the  most  recondite  books 
that  has  come  from  the  press  in  a  generation,  and  it 
is  no  reflection  upon  the  book  for  me  to  say  that  I 
have  been  trying  to  read  it.  It  is  so  big,  so  deep,  so 
high,  and  so  wide  that  I  can  only  splash  around  in 
it  a  bit.  But  "the  water's  fine."  At  any  rate,  I  have 
been  dipping  into  this  book  quite  a  little,  and  that  is 
how  I  came  upon  the  caption  of  my  speech.  Of  course, 
I  get  the  word  "efficiency"  from  the  title  of  the  book, 
and,  besides,  everybody  uses  that  word  nowadays. 
Then,  the  author  of  this  book  has  a  chapter  on  "Dia- 
lectic," and  so  I  combine  these  two  words  and  thus 
get  rid  of  the  quotation-marks. 

And  that  certainly  is  an  imposing  subject  for  a 
speech.  If  it  should  ever  be  printed  on  a  programme, 
it  would  prove  awe-inspiring.  Next  to  making  a  good 
speech,  I'd  like  to  be  skilled  in  sleight-of-hand  af- 
fairs. I'd  like  to  fish  up  a  rabbit  from  the  depths  of 
an  old  gentleman's  silk  tile,  or  extract  a  do/en  eggs 
from  a  lady's  hand-bag,  or  transmute  a  canary  into 
a  goldfish.  I'd  like  to  see  the  looks  of  wonder  on  the 
faces  of  the  audience  and  hear  them  gasp.  The  dif- 
ficulty with  such  a  subject  as  I  have  chosen,  though, 
is  to  fill  the  frame.  I  went  into  a  shop  in  Paris  once 
to  make  some  small  purchase,  expecting  to  find  a  great 
emporium,  but,  to  my  surprise,  found  that  all  the 
52 


MY  SPEECH 

goods  were  in  the  show-window.  That's  one  trouble 
with  my  subject — all  the  goods  seem  to  be  in  the 
show-window.  But,  I'll  do  the  best  I  can  with  it, 
even  if  I  am  compelled  to  pilfer  from  the  pages  of  the 
book. 

In  the  introduction  of  the  speech  I  shall  become 
expansive  upon  the  term  Dialectic,  and  try  to  impress 
my  hearers  (if  there  are  any)  with  my  thorough  ac- 
quaintance with  all  things  which  the  term  suggests. 
If  I  continue  expatiating  upon  the  word  long  enough 
they  may  come  to  think  that  I  actually  coined  the 
word,  for  I  shall  not  emphasize  Doctor  Durell  especially 
— just  enough  to  keep  my  soul  untarnished.  In  a 
review  of  this  book  one  man  translates  the  first  word 
"luck."  I  don't  like  his  word  and  for  two  reasons: 
In  the  first  place,  it  is  a  short  word,  and  everybody 
knows  that  long  words  are  better  for  speechmaking 
purposes.  If  he  had  used  the  word  "accidental"  or 
"incidental"  I'd  think  more  of  his  translation  and  of 
his  review.  I'm  going  to  use  my  word  as  if  Doctor 
Durell  had  said  Incidental. 

So  much  for  the  introduction;  now  for  the  speech. 
From  this  point  forward  I  shall  draw  largely  upon 
the  book  but  shall  so  turn  and  twist  what  the  doctor 
says  as  to  make  it  seem  my  own.  With  something 
of  a  flourish,  I  shall  tell  how  in  the  year  1856  a  young 
chemist,  named  Perkin,  while  trying  to  produce  quinine 
53 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

synthetically,  hit  upon  the  process  of  producing  aniline 
dyes.  His  incidental  discovery  led  to  the  establish- 
ment of  the  artificial-dye  industry,  and  we  have  here 
an  example  of  dialectic  efficiency.  This  must  impress 
my  intelligent  and  cultured  auditors,  and  they  will 
be  wondering  if  I  can  produce  another  illustration 
equally  good.  I  can,  of  course,  for  this  book  is  rich 
in  illustrations.  I  can  see,  as  it  were,  the  old  fellow 
on  the  third  seat,  who  has  been  sitting  there  as  stiff 
and  straight  as  a  ramrod,  Umber  up  just  a  mite,  and 
with  my  next  point  I  hope  to  induce  him  to  lean  for- 
ward an  inch,  at  least,  out  of  the  perpendicular. 

Then  I  shall  proceed  to  recount  to  them  how  Chris- 
topher Columbus,  in  an  effort  to  circumnavigate  the 
globe  and  reach  the  eastern  coast  of  Asia,  failed  in 
this  undertaking,  but  made  a  far  greater  achieve- 
ment in  the  discovery  of  America.  If,  at  this  point, 
the  old  man  is  leaning  forward  two  or  three  niches 
instead  of  one,  I  may  ask,  in  dramatic  style,  where 
we  should  all  be  to-day  if  Columbus  had  reached  Asia 
instead  of  America — in  other  words,  if  this  principle 
of  dialectic  efficiency  had  not  been  in  full  force.  Just 
here,  to  give  opportunity  for  possible  applause,  I 
shall  take  the  handkerchief  from  my  pocket  with 
much  deliberation,  unfold  it  carefully,  and  wipe  my 
face  and  forehead  as  an  evidence  that  dispensing 
second-hand  thoughts  is  a  sweat-producing  process. 
64 


MY  SPEECH 

Then,  in  a  sort  of  sublimated  frenzy,  I  shall  fairly 
deluge  them  with  illustrations,  telling  how  the  estab- 
lishment of  rural  mail-routes  led  to  improved  roads 
and  these,  in  turn,  to  consolidated  schools  and  better 
conditions  of  living  in  the  country;  how  the  potato- 
beetle,  which  seems  at  first  to  be  a  scourge,  was  really 
a  blessing  in  disguise  in  that  it  set  farmers  to  studying 
improved  methods  resulting  in  largely  increased  crops, 
and  how  the  scale  has  done  a  like  service  for  fruit- 
growers; how  a  friend  of  mine  was  drilling  for  oil 
and  found  water  instead,  and  now  has  an  artesian  well 
that  supplies  water  in  great  abundance,  and  how  one 
Mr.  Hellriegel,  back  in  1886,  made  the  incidental  dis- 
covery that  leguminous  plants  fixate  nitrogen,  and, 
hence,  our  fields  of  clover,  alfalfa,  cow-peas,  and  soy- 
beans. 

It  will  not  seem  out  of  place  if  I  recall  to  them  how 
the  Revolution  gave  us  Washington,  the  Adamses, 
Hancock,  Madison,  Franklin,  Jefferson,  and  Hamil- 
ton; how  slavery  gave  us  Clay,  Calhoun,  and  Webster; 
and  how  the  Civil  War  gave  us  Lincoln,  Seward, 
Stanton,  Grant,  Lee,  Sherman,  Sheridan,  and  "Stone- 
wall" Jackson.  If  there  should,  by  chance,  be  any 
teachers  present  I'll  probably  enlarge  upon  this  his- 
torical phase  of  the  subject  if  I  can  think  of  any  other 
illustrations.  I  shall  certainly  emphasize  the  fact 
that  the  incidental  phases  of  school  work  may  prove 
55 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

to  be  more  important  than  the  objects  directly  aimed 
at,  that  while  the  teacher  is  striving  to  inculcate  a 
knowledge  of  arithmetic  she  may  be  inculcating  man- 
hood and  womanhood,  and  that  the  by-products  of 
her  teaching  may  become  world-wide  influences. 

As  a  peroration,  I  shah1  expand  upon  the  subject 
of  pleasure  as  an  incidental  of  work — showing  how  the 
mere  pleasure-seeker  never  finds  what  he  is  seeking, 
but  that  the  man  who  works  is  the  one  who  finds 
pleasure.  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  find  some  apt 
quotation  from  Emerson  before  the  time  for  the  speech 
comes  around.  If  so,  I  shall  use  it  so  as  to  take  their 
minds  off  the  fact  that  I  am  taking  the  speech  from 
Doctor  Durell's  book. 


56 


CHAPTER  IX 
SCHOOL-TEACHING 

fT^HE  first  school  that  I  ever  tried  to  teach  was, 
•*•  indeed,  fearfully  and  wonderfully  taught.  The 
teaching  was  of  the  sort  that  might  well  be  called  ele- 
mental. If  there  was  any  pedagogy  connected  with 
the  work,  it  was  purely  accidental.  I  was  not  con- 
scious either  of  its  presence  or  its  absence,  and  so 
deserve  neither  praise  nor  censure.  I  had  one  pupil 
who  was  nine  years  my  senior,  and  I  did  not  even 
know  that  he  was  retarded.  I  recall  quite  distinctly 
that  he  had  a  luxuriant  crop  of  chin-whiskers  but  even 
these  did  not  disturb  the  procedure  of  that  school. 
We  accepted  him  as  he  was,  whiskers  included,  and 
went  on  our  complacent  way.  He  was  blind  in  one 
eye  and  somewhat  deaf,  but  no  one  ever  thought  of 
him  as  abnormal  or  subnormal.  Even  if  we  had  known 
these  words  we  should  have  been  too  polite  to  apply 
them  to  him.  In  fact,  we  had  no  black-list,  of  any 
sort,  in  that  school.  I  have  never  been  able  to  de- 
termine whether  the  absence  of  such  a  list  was  due  to 
ignorance,  or  innocence,  or  both.  So  long  as  he  found 
the  school  an  agreeable  place  in  which  to  spend  the 
57 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

winter,  and  did  not  interfere  with  the  work  of  others, 
I  could  see  no  good  reason  why  he  should  not  be  there 
and  get  what  he  could  from  the  lessons  in  spelling, 
geography,  and  arithmetic.  I  do  not  mention  grammar 
for  that  was  quite  beyond  him.  The  agreement  of 
subject  and  verb  was  one  of  life's  great  mysteries  to 
him.  So  I  permitted  him  to  browse  around  in  such 
pastures  as  seemed  finite  to  him,  and  let  the  infinite 
grammar  go  by  default  so  far  as  he  was  concerned. 

I  have  but  the  most  meagre  acquaintance  with  the 
pedagogical  dicta  of  the  books — a  mere  bowing  ac- 
quaintance— but,  at  that  time,  I  had  not  even  been 
introduced  to  any  of  these.  But,  as  the  saying  goes, 
"The  Lord  takes  care  of  fools  and  children,"  and,  so, 
somehow,  by  sheer  blind  luck,  I  instinctively  veered 
away  from  the  Procrustean  bed  idea,  and  found  some 
work  for  my  bewhiskered  disciple  that  connected  with 
his  native  dispositions.  Had  any  one  told  me  I  was 
doing  any  such  things  I  think  I  should,  probably,  have 
asked  him  how  to  spell  the  words  he  was  using.  I 
only  knew  that  this  man-child  was  there  yearning  for 
knowledge,  and  I  was  glad  to  share  my  meagre  store 
of  crumbs  with  him.  His  gratitude  for  my  small 
gifts  was  really  pathetic,  and  right  there  I  learned  the 
joys  of  the  teacher.  That  man  sought  me  out  on  our 
way  home  from  school  and  asked  questions  that  would 
have  puzzled  Socrates,  but  forgot  my  ignorance  of 
58 


SCHOOL-TEACHING 

hard  questions  in  his  joy  at  my  answers  of  easy  ones. 
When  some  light  would  break  in  upon  him  he  cavorted 
about  me  like  a  glad  dog,  and  became  a  second  Colum- 
bus, discovering  a  new  world. 

I  almost  lose  patience  with  myself,  at  times,  when 
I  catch  myself  preening  my  feathers  before  some 
pedagogical  mirror,  as  if  I  were  getting  ready  to 
appear  hi  public  as  an  accredited  schoolmaster.  At 
such  a  time,  I  long  to  go  back  to  the  country  road  and 
saunter  along  beside  some  pupil,  either  with  or  without 
whiskers,  and  give  him  of  my  little  store  without  rules 
or  frills  and  with  no  pomp  or  parade.  In  that  little 
school  at  the  crossroads  we  never  made  any  prepara- 
tion for  some  possible  visitor  who  might  come  in  to 
survey  us  or  apply  some  efficiency  test,  or  give  us  a 
rating  either  as  individuals  or  as  a  school.  We  were 
too  busy  and  happy  for  that.  We  kept  right  on  at 
our  work  with  our  doors  and  our  hearts  wide  open 
for  every  good  thing  that  came  our  way,  whether 
knowledge  or  people.  As  I  have  said,  our  work  was 
elemental. 

I  am  glad  I  came  across  this  little  book  of  William 
James,  "On  Some  of  Life's  Ideals,"  for  it  takes  me 
back,  inferentially,  to  that  elemental  school,  espe- 
cially in  this  paragraph  which  says:  "Life  is  always 
worth  living,  if  one  have  such  responsive  sensibilities. 
But  we  of  the  highly  educated  classes  (so-called) 
59 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

have  most  of  us  got  far,  far  away  from  Nature.  We 
are  trained  to  seek  the  choice,  the  rare,  the  exquisite 
exclusively  and  to  overlook  the  common.  We  are 
stuffed  with  abstract  conceptions,  and  glib  with  ver- 
balities  and  verbosities;  and  in  the  culture  of  these 
higher  functions  the  peculiar  sources  of  joy  connected 
with  our  simpler  functions  often  dry  up,  and  we  grow 
stone-blind  and  insensible  to  life's  more  elementary 
and  general  goods  and  joys." 

I  wish  I  might  go  home  from  school  one  evening 
by  way  of  the  top  of  Mt.  Vesuvius,  another  by  way  of 
Mt.  Rigi,  and,  another,  by  way  of  Lauterbrunnen. 
Then  the  next  evening  I  should  like  to  spend  an  hour 
or  two  along  the  borders  of  Yellowstone  Canyon,  and 
the  next,  watch  an  eruption  or  two  of  Old  Faithful 
geyser.  Then,  on  still  another  evening,  I'd  like  to 
ride  for  two  hours  on  top  of  a  bus  in  London.  I'd 
like  to  have  these  experiences  as  an  antidote  for  empti- 
ness. It  would  prepare  me  far  better  for  to-morrow's 
work  than  pondering  Johnny's  defections,  or  his 
grades,  whether  high  or  low,  or  marking  silly  papers 
with  marks  that  are  still  sillier.  I  like  Walt  Whit- 
man because  he  was  such  a  sublime  loafer.  His  loaf- 
ing gave  him  time  to  grow  big  inside,  and  so,  he  had 
big  elemental  thoughts  that  were  good  for  him  and 
good  for  me  when  I  think  them  over  after  him. 

If  I  should  ever  get  a  position  in  a  normal  school 
60 


SCHOOL-TEACHING 

I'd  want  to  give  a  course  in  William  J.  Locke's  "The 
Beloved  Vagabond,"  so  as  to  give  the  young  folks 
a  conception  of  big  elemental  teaching.  If  I  were 
giving  a  course  in  ethics,  I'd  probably  select  another 
book,  but,  in  pedagogy,  I'd  certainly  include  that 
one.  I'd  lose  some  students,  to  be  sure,  for  some  of 
them  would  be  shocked;  but  a  person  who  is  not  big 
enough  to  profit  by  reading  that  book  never  ought 
to  teach  school — I  mean  for  the  school's  sake.  If  we 
could  only  lose  the  consciousness  of  the  fact  that 
we  are  schoolmasters  for  a  few  hours  each  day,  it 
would  be  a  great  help  to  us  and  to  our  boys  and 
girls. 

I  am  quite  partial  to  the  "Madonna  of  the  Chair," 
and  wish  I  might  visit  the  Pitti  Gallery  frequently 
just  to  gaze  at  her.  She  is  so  wholesome  and  gives 
one  the  feeling  that  a  big  soul  looks  out  through  her 
eyes.  She  would  be  a  superb  teacher.  She  would  fill 
the  school  with  her  presence  and  still  do  it  all  un- 
consciously. The  centre  of  the  room  would  be  where 
she  happened  to  be.  She  would  never  be  mistaken  for 
one  of  the  pupils.  Her  pupils  would  learn  arithmetic 
but  the  arithmetic  would  be  laden  with  her  big  spirit, 
and  that  would  be  better  for  them  than  the  arithmetic 
could  possibly  be.  If  I  had  to  be  a  woman  I'd  want 
to  be  such  as  this  Madonna — serene,  majestic,  and 
big-souled. 

61 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

I  have  often  wondered  whether  bigness  of  soul  can 
be  cultivated,  and  my  optimism  inclines  to  a  vote 
in  the  affirmative.  I  spent  a  part  of  one  summer  in 
the  pine  woods  far  away  from  the  haunts  of  men. 
When  I  had  to  leave  this  sylvan  retreat  it  required 
eleven  hours  by  stage  to  reach  the  railway-station. 
There  for  some  weeks  I  lived  in  a  log  cabin,  accom- 
panied by  a  cook  and  a  professional  woodsman.  I 
was  not  there  to  camp,  to  fish,  or  to  loaf,  and  yet  I 
did  all  these.  There  were  some  duties  and  work  con- 
nected with  the  enterprise  and  these  gave  zest  to  the 
fishing  and  the  loafing.  Giant  trees,  space,  and  sky 
were  my  most  intimate  associates,  and  they  told  me 
only  of  big  things.  They  had  never  a  word  to  say  of 
styles  of  clothing  or  becoming  shades  of  neckwear  or 
hosiery.  In  all  that  tune  I  was  never  disturbed  by 
the  number  and  diversity  of  spoons  and  forks  beside 
my  plate  at  the  dinner-table.  Many  a  noble  meal 
I  ate  as  I  sat  upon  a  log  supported  in  forked  stakes, 
and  many  a  big  thought  did  I  glean  from  the  talk  of 
loggers  about  me  in  their  picturesque  costumes.  In 
the  evening  I  sat  upon  a  great  log  in  front  of  the  cabin 
or  a  friendly  stump,  and  forgot  such  things  as  ham- 
mocks and  porch-swings.  Instead  of  gazing  at  street- 
lamps  only  a  few  yards  away  I  was  gazing  at  stars 
millions  of  miles  away,  and,  somehow,  the  soul  seemed 
to  gam  freedom. 

62 


SCHOOL-TEACHING 

And  I  had  luxury,  too.  I  had  a  room  with  bath. 
The  bath  was  at  the  stream  some  fifty  yards  away, 
but  such  discrepancies  are  minor  affairs  in  the  midst 
of  such  big  elemental  things  as  were  all  about  me.  My 
mattress  was  of  young  cherry  shoots,  and  never  did 
king  have  a  more  royal  bed,  or  ever  such  refreshing 
sleep.  And,  while  I  slept,  I  grew  inside,  for  the  soft 
music  of  the  pines  lulled  me  to  rest,  and  the  subdued 
rippling  of  my  bath-stream  seemed  to  .wash  my  soul 
clean.  When  I  arose  I  had  no  bad  taste  in  my  mouth 
or  in  my  soul,  and  each  morning  had  for  me  the  glory 
of  a  resurrection.  My  trees  were  there  to  bid  me 
good  morning,  the  big  spaces  spoke  to  me  in  their 
own  inspiriting  language,  and  the  big  sun,  playing 
hide-and-seek  among  the  great  boles  of  the  trees  as 
he  mounted  from  the  horizon,  gave  me  a  panorama 
unrivalled  among  the  scenes  of  earth. 

When  I  returned  to  what  men  called  civilization 
I  experienced  a  poignant  longing  for  my  big  trees, 
my  sky,  and  my  spaces,  and  felt  that  I  had  exchanged 
them  for  many  things  that  are  petty  and  futile.  If 
my  school  were  only  out  in  the  heart  of  that  big  forest, 
I  feel  that  my  work  would  be  more  effective  and  that 
I  would  not  have  to  potter  about  among  little  things 
to  obey  the  whims  of  convention  and  the  dictates  of 
technicalities,  but  that  the  soul  would  be  free  to  revel 
in  the  truth  that  sky  and  space  proclaim.  I  do  hope 
63 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

I  may  never  know  so  much  about  technical  pedagogy 
that  I  shall  not  know  anything  else.  This  may  be 
what  those  people  mean  who  speak  of  the  "revolt  of 
the  ego." 


64 


CHAPTER  X 
BEEFSTEAK 

I"  AM  just  now  quite  in  the  mood  to  join  the  band; 
I  mean  the  vocational-education  band.  The  ex- 
citement has  carried  me  off  my  feet.  I  can't  endure 
the  looks  of  suspicion  or  pity  that  I  see  on  the  faces 
of  my  colleagues.  They  stare  at  me  as  if  I  were  wear- 
ing a  tie  or  a  hat  or  a  coat  that  is  a  bit  below  stand- 
ard. I  want  to  seem,  if  not  be,  modern  and  up-to- 
date,  and  not  odd  and  peculiar.  So  I  shall  join  the 
band.  I  am  not  caring  much  whether  I  beat  the 
drum,  carry  the  flag,  or  lead  the  trick-bear.  I  may 
even  ride  in  the  gaudily  painted  wagon  behind  a 
spotted  pony  and  call  out  in  raucous  tones  to  all 
and  sundry  to  hurry  around  to  the  main  tent  to  get 
their  education  before  the  rush.  In  times  past,  when 
these  vocational  folks  have  piped  unto  me  I  have 
not  danced;  but  I  now  see  the  error  of  my  ways  and 
shall  proceed  at  once  to  take  dancing  lessons.  When 
these  folks  lead  in  the  millennium  I  want  to  be  sitting 
well  up  in  front;  and  when  they  get  the  pot  of  gold 
at  the  end  of  the  rainbow  I  want  to  participate  in 
the  distribution.  I  do  hope,  though,  that  I  may  not 
65 


.      REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

exhaust  my  resources  on  the  band  and  have  none 
left  for  the  boys  and  girls.  I  hope  I  may  not  imitate 
Mark  Twain's  steamboat  that  stopped  dead  still  when 
the  whistle  blew,  because  blowing  the  whistle  required 
all  the  steam. 

I  suspect  that,  like  the  Irishman,  I  shall  have  to 
wear  my  new  boots  awhile  before  I  can  get  them  on, 
for  this  new  role  is  certain  to  entail  many  changes 
in  my  plans  and  in  my  ways  of  doing  things.  I  can 
see  that  it  will  be  a  wrench  for  me  to  think  of  the 
boys  and  girls  as  pedagogical  specimens  and  not 
persons.  I  have  contracted  the  habit  of  thinking  of 
them  as  persons,  and  it  will  not  be  easy  to  come  to 
thinking  of  them  as  mere  objects  to  practise  on.  The 
folks  in  the  hospital  speak  of  then-  patients  as  "cases," 
but  I'd  rather  keep  aloof  from  the  hospital  plan  in 
my  schoolmastering.  But,  being  a  member  of  the 
band,  I  suppose  that  I'll  feel  it  my  duty  to  conform 
and  do  my  utmost  to  help  prove  that  our  cult  has 
discovered  the  great  and  universal  panacea,  the  balm 
in  Gilead. 

As  a  member  of  the  band,  in  good  and  regular 
standing,  I  shall  find  myself  saying  that  the  school 
should  have  the  boys  and  girls  pursue  such  studies 
as  will  fit  them  for  their  life-work.  This  has  a  pleasing 
sound.  Now,  if  I  can  only  find  out,  somehow,  what 
the  life-work  of  each  one  of  my  pupils  is  to  be,  I'll  be 
66 


BEEFSTEAK 

all  right,  and  shall  proceed  to  fit  each  one  out  with 
his  belongings.  I  have  asked  them  to  tell  me  what 
their  life-work  is  to  be,  but  they  tell  me  they  do  not 
know.  So  I  suspect  that  I  must  visit  all  their  parents 
in  order  to  get  this  information.  Until  I  get  this 
information  I  cannot  begin  on  my  course  of  study. 
If  their  parents  cannot  tell  me  I  hardly  know  what 
I  shall  do,  unless  I  have  recourse  to  their  maiden 
aunts.  They  ought  to  know.  But  if  they  decline  to 
tell  I  must  begin  on  a  long  series  of  guesses,  unless,  in 
the  meantime,  I  am  endowed  with  omniscience. 

This  whole  plan  fascinates  me;  I  dote  upon  it.  It 
is  so  pliable,  so  dreamy,  and  so  opalescent  that  I  can 
scarce  restrain  my  enthusiasm.  But  if  I  should  fit 
one  of  my  boys  out  with  the  equipment  necessary  for 
a  blacksmith,  and  then  he  should  become  a  preacher, 
I'd  find  the  situation  embarrassing.  My  reputation 
as  a  prophet  would  certainly  decline.  If  I  could  know 
that  this  boy  is  looking  forward  to  the  ministry  as  his 
life-work,  the  matter  would  be  simple.  I'd  proceed 
to  fit  him  out  with  a  fire-proof  suit  of  Greek,  Hebrew, 
and  theology  and  have  the  thing  done.  But  even 
then  some  of  my  colleagues  might  protest  on  the 
assumption  that  Greek  and  Hebrew  are  not  voca- 
tional studies.  The  preacher  might  assert  that  they 
are  vocational  for  his  work,  in  which  case  I'd  find 
myself  in  the  midst  of  an  argument.  I  know  a  young 
67 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

man  who  is  a  student  in  a  college  of  medicine.  He  is 
paying  his  way  by  means  of  his  music.  He  both  plays 
and  sings,  and  can  thus  pay  his  bills.  In  the  college 
he  studies  chemistry,  anatomy,  and  the  like.  I'm  try- 
ing to  figure  out  whether  or  not,  in  his  case,  either 
his  music  or  his  chemistry  is  vocational. 

I  have  been  perusing  the  city  directory  to  find  out 
how  many  and  what  vocations  there  are,  that  I  may 
plan  my  course  of  study  accordingly  when  I  discover 
what  the  life-work  of  each  of  my  pupils  is  to  be.  If 
I  find  that  one  boy  expects  to  be  an  undertaker  he 
ought  to  take  the  dead  languages,  of  course.  If  an- 
other boy  expects  to  be  a  jockey  he  might  take  these 
same  languages  with  the  aid  of  a  "pony."  If  a  girl 
decides  upon  marriage  as  her  vocation,  I'll  have  her 
take  home  economics,  of  course,  but  shall  have  dif- 
ficulty in  deciding  upon  her  other  studies.  If  I  omit 
Latin,  history,  and  algebra,  she  may  reproach  me  later 
on  because  of  these  omissions.  She  may  find  that 
such  studies  as  these  are  essential  to  success  in  the 
vocation  of  wife  and  mother.  She  may  have  a  boy 
of  her  own  who  will  invoke  her  aid  in  his  quest  for 
the  value  of  x,  and  a  mother  hesitates  to  enter  a  plea 
of  ignorance  to  her  own  child. 

I  can  fit  out  the  dancing-master  easily  enough,  but 
am  not  so  certain  about  the  barber,  the  chauffeur, 
and  the  aviator.  The  aviator  would  give  me  no  end 
68 


BEEFSTEAK 

of  trouble,  especially  if  I  should  deem  it  necessary 
to  teach  him  by  the  laboratory  method.  Then,  again, 
if  one  boy  decides  to  become  a  pharmacist,  I  may 
find  it  necessary  to  attend  night  classes  in  this  subject 
myself  in  order  to  meet  the  situation  with  a  fair  de- 
gree of  complacency.  Nor  do  I  see  my  way  clear  in 
providing  for  the  steeple-climber,  the  equilibrist,  the 
railroad  president,  or  the  tea-taster.  I'll  probably 
have  my  troubles,  too,  with  the  novel-writer,  the 
poet,  the  politician,  and  the  bareback  rider.  But  I 
must  manage  somehow  if  I  hope  to  retain  my  member- 
ship in  the  band. 

I  see  that  I  shall  have  to  serve  quite  an  apprentice- 
ship in  the  band  before  I  write  my  treatise  on  the 
subject  of  pedagogical  predestination.  The  world 
needs  that  essay,  and  I  must  get  around  to  it  just  as 
soon  as  possible.  Of  course,  that  will  be  a  great  step 
beyond  the  present  plan  of  finding  out  what  a  boy 
expects  to  do,  and  then  teaching  him  accordingly. 
My  predestination  plan  contemplates  the  process  of 
arranging  such  a  course  of  study  for  him  as  will  make 
him  what  we  want  him  to  be.  A  naturalist  tells  me 
that  when  a  queen  bee  dies  the  swarm  set  to  work 
making  another  queen  by  feeding  one  of  the  common 
working  bees  some  queen  stuff.  He  failed  to  tell  me 
just  what  this  queen  stuff  is.  That  process  of  pro- 
ducing a  queen  bee  is  what  gave  me  the  notion  as  to 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

my  treatise.  If  the  parents  want  their  boy  to  become 
a  lawyer  I  shall  feed  him  lawyer  stuff;  if  a  preacher, 
then  preacher  stuff,  and  so  on. 

This  will  necessitate  a  deal  of  researcn  work,  for  I 
shall  have  to  go  back  into  history,  first  of  all,  to  find 
out  the  course  of  study  that  produced  Newton,  Hum- 
boldt,  Darwin,  Shakespeare,  Dante,  Edison,  Clara 
Barton,  and  the  rest  of  them.  If  a  roast-beef  diet  is 
responsible  for  Shakespeare,  surely  we  ought  to  pro- 
duce another  Shakespeare,  considering  the  excellence 
of  the  cattle  we  raise.  I  can  easily  discover  the  con- 
stituent elements  of  the  beef  pudding  of  which  Samuel 
Johnson  was  so  fond  by  writing  to  the  old  Cheshire 
Cheese  in  London.  Of  course,  this  plan  of  mine  seems 
not  to  take  into  account  the  Lord's  work  to  any  large 
extent.  But  that  seems  to  be  the  way  of  us  voca- 
tionalists.  We  seem  to  think  we  can  do  certain  things 
in  spite  of  what  the  Lord  has  or  has  not  done. 

The  one  danger  that  I  foresee  in  all  this  work  that 
I  have  planned  is  that  it  may  produce  overstimula- 
tion.  Some  one  was  telling  me  that  the  trees  on  the 
Embankment  there  in  London  are  dying  of  arboreal 
insomnia.  The  light  of  the  sun  keeps  them  awake 
all  day,  and  the  electric  lights  keep  them  awake  all 
night.  So  the  poor  things  are  dying  from  lack  of  sleep. 
Macbeth  had  some  trouble  of  that  sort,  too,  as  I  re- 
call it.  I'm  going  to  hold  on  to  the  vocational  stimula- 
70 


BEEFSTEAK 

tion  unless  I  find  it  is  producing  pedagogical  insomnia. 
Then  I'll  resign  from  the  band  and  take  a  long  nap. 
I'll  continue  to  advocate  pudding,  pastry,  and  pie 
until  I  find  that  they  are  not  producing  the  sort  of 
men  and  women  the  world  needs,  and  then  I'll  beat 
an  inglorious  retreat  and  again  espouse  the  cause  of 
orthodox  beefsteak. 


71 


CHAPTER  XI 
FREEDOM 

T  HAVE  often  wondered  what  conjunction  of  the 
•*•  stars  caused  me  to  become  a  schoolmaster,  if,  in- 
deed, the  stars,  lucky  or  otherwise,  had  anything  to 
do  with  it.  It  may  have  been  the  salary  that  lured 
me,  for  thirty-five  dollars  a  month  bulks  large  on  a 
boy's  horizon.  Possibly  the  fact  that  in  those  days 
there  was  no  anteroom  to  the  teaching  business  may 
have  been  the  deciding  factor.  One  had  but  to  ex- 
change his  hickory  shirt  for  a  white  one,  and  the  trick 
was  done.  There  was  not  even  a  fence  between  the 
corn-field  and  the  schoolhouse.  I  might  just  as  easily 
have  been  a  preacher  but  for  the  barrier  in  the  shape 
of  a  theological  seminary,  or  a  hod-carrier  but  for  the 
barrier  of  learning  how.  As  it  was,  I  could  draw  my 
pay  for  husking  corn  on  Saturday  night,  and  begin 
accumulating  salary  as  a  schoolmaster  on  Monday. 
The  plan  was  simplicity  itself,  and  that  may  account 
for  my  choice  of  a  vocation. 

I  have  sometimes  tried  to  imagine  myself  a  preacher, 
but  with  poor  success.    The  sermon  would  bother  me 
no  little,  to  make  no  mention  of  the  other  functions. 
72 


FREEDOM 

I  think  I  never  could  get  through  with  a  marriage 
ceremony,  and  at  a  christening  I'd  be  on  nettles  all 
the  while,  fearing  the  baby  would  cry  and  thus  dis- 
turb the  solemnity  of  the  occasion  and  of  the  preacher. 
I'd  want  to  take  the  baby  into  my  own  arms  and 
have  a  romp  with  him — and  so  would  forget  about 
the  baptizing.  In  casting  about  for  a  possible  text 
for  this  impossible  preacher,  I  have  found  only  one 
that  I  think  I  might  do  something  with.  Hence, 
my  preaching  would  endure  but  a  single  week,  and 
even  at  that  we'd  have  to  have  a  song  service  on 
Sunday  evening  in  lieu  of  a  sermon. 

My  one  text  would  be:  "Ye  shall  know  the  truth 
and  the  truth  shall  make  you  free."  I  do  not  know 
how  big  truth  is,  but  it  must  be  quite  extensive  if 
science,  mathematics,  history,  and  literature  are  but 
small  parts  of  it.  I  have  never  explored  these  parts 
very  far  inland,  but  they  seem  to  my  limited  gaze  to 
extend  a  long  distance  before  me;  and  when  I  get 
to  thinking  that  each  of  these  is  but  a  part  of  some- 
thing that  is  called  truth  I  begin  to  feel  that  truth  is 
a  pretty  large  affair.  I  suspect  the  text  means  that 
the  more  of  this  truth  we  know  the  greater  freedom 
we  have.  My  friend  Brown  has  an  automobile, 
and  sometimes  he  takes  me  out  riding.  On  one  of 
these  occasions  we  had  a  puncture,  with  the  usual 
attendant  circumstances.  While  Brown  made  the 
73 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

needful  repairs,  I  sat  upon  the  grassy  bank.  The 
passers-by  probably  regarded  me  as  a  lazy  chap  who 
disdained  work  of  all  sorts,  and  perhaps  thought  of 
me  as  enjoying  myself  while  Brown  did  the  work.  In 
this  they  were  grossly  mistaken,  for  Brown  was  hav- 
ing the  good  time,  while  I  was  bored  and  uncomfort- 
able. Why,  Brown  actually  whistled  as  he  repaired 
that  puncture.  He  had  freedom  because  he  knew 
which  tool  to  use,  where  to  find  it,  and  how  to  use  it. 
But  there  I  sat  in  ignorance  and  thraldom — not 
knowing  the  truth  about  the  tools  or  the  processes. 

In  the  presence  of  that  episode  I  felt  like  one  hi  a 
foreign  country  who  is  ignorant  of  the  language,  while 
Brown  was  the  concierge  who  understands  many 
languages.  He  knew  the  truth  and  so  had  freedom. 
I  have  often  wondered  whether  men  do  not  some- 
times get  drunk  to  win  a  respite  from  the  thraldom 
and  boredom  of  their  ignorance  of  the  truth.  It  must 
be  a  very  trying  experience  not  'to  understand  the 
language  that  is  spoken  all  about  one.  I  have  some- 
thing of  that  feeling  when  I  go  into  a  drug-store  and 
find  myself  in  complete  ignorance  of  the  contents 
of  the  bottles  because  I  cannot  read  the  labels.  I 
have  no  freedom  because  I  do  not  know  the  truth. 
The  dapper  clerk  who  takes  down  one  bottle  after 
another  with  refreshing  freedom  relegates  me  to  the 
kindergarten,  and  I  certainly  feel  and  act  the  part. 
74 


FREEDOM 

I  had  this  same  feeling,  too,  when  I  was  making 
ready  to  sow  my  little  field  with  alfalfa.  I  wanted 
to  have  alfalfa  growing  in  the  field  next  to  the  road 
for  my  own  pleasure  and  for  the  pleasure  of  the  passers- 
by.  A  field  of  alfalfa  is  an  ornament  to  any  landscape, 
and  I  like  to  have  my  landscapes  ornamental,  even  if 
I  must  pay  for  it  in  terms  of  manual  toil.  I  had  never 
even  seen  alfalfa  seed  and  did  not  in  the  least  know 
how  to  proceed  in  preparing  the  soil.  If  I  ever  ex- 
pected to  have  any  freedom  I  must  first  learn  the 
truth,  and  a  certain  modicum  of  freedom  necessarily 
precedes  the  joy  of  alfalfa. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  I  set  about  learning  the 
truth.  I  had  to  learn  about  the  nature  of  the  soil, 
about  drainage,  about  the  right  kinds  of  fertilizer, 
and  all  that,  before  I  could  even  hitch  the  team  to  a 
plough.  Some  of  this  truth  I  gleaned  from  books  and 
magazines,  but  more  of  it  I  obtained  from  my  neighbor 
John,  who  lives  about  two  hundred  yards  up  the  pike 
from  my  little  place.  John  is  a  veritable  encyclopaedia 
of  truth  when  it  comes  to  the  subject  of  alfalfa.  There 
I  would  sit  at  the  feet  of  this  alfalfa  Gamaliel.  Be  it 
said  in  favor  of  my  reactions  that  I  learned  the  trick 
of  alfalfa  and  now  have  a  field  that  is  a  delight  to  the 
eye.  And  I  now  feel  qualified  to  give  lessons  in  al- 
falfa culture  to  all  and  sundry,  so  great  is  my  sense  of 
freedom. 

75 


REVERIES  OF  A   SCHOOLMASTER 

I  came  upon  a  forlorn-looking  woman  once  in  a 
large  railway-station  who  was  in  great  distress.  She 
wanted  to  get  a  train,  but  did  not  know  through  which 
gate  to  go  nor  where  to  obtain  the  necessary  informa- 
tion. She  was  overburdened  with  luggage  and  a  little 
girl  was  tugging  at  her  dress  and  crying  pitifully. 
That  woman  was  as  really  in  bondage  as  if  she  had 
been  in  prison  looking  out  through  the  barred  win- 
dows. When  she  had  finally  been  piloted  to  the  train 
the  joy  of  freedom  manifested  itself  in  every  linea- 
ment of  her  face.  She  had  come  to  know  the  truth, 
and  the  truth  had  set  her  free. 

I  know  how  she  felt,  for  one  night  I  worked  for 
more  than  two  hours  on  what,  to  me,  was  a  difficult 
problem,  and  when  at  last  I  had  it  solved  the  manifes- 
tations of  joy  caused  consternation  to  the  family  and 
damage  to  the  furniture.  I  never  was  in  jail  for  any 
length  of  time,  but  I  think  I  know,  from' my  experience 
with  that  problem,  just  how  a  prisoner  feels  when  he 
is  set  free.  The  big  out-of-doors  must  seem  inex- 
pressibly good  to  him.  My  neighbor  John  taught  me 
how  to  spray  my  trees,  and  now,  when  I  walk  through 
my  orchard  and  see  the  smooth  trunks  and  pick  the 
beautiful,  smooth,  perfect  apples,  I  feel  that  sense  of 
freedom  that  can  come  only  through  a  knowledge  of 
the  truth. 

I  haven't  looked  up  the  etymology  of  grippe,  but  the 
76 


FREEDOM 

word  itself  seems  to  tell  its  own  story.  It  seems  to 
mean  restriction,  subjection,  slavery.  It  certainly 
spells  lack  of  freedom.  I  have  seen  many  boys  and 
girls  who  seemed  afflicted  with  arithmetical,  gram- 
matical, and  geographical  grippe,  and  I  have  sought 
to  free  them  from  its  tyranny  and  lead  them  forth 
into  the  sunlight  and  pure  air  of  freedom.  If  I  only 
knew  just  how  to  do  this  effectively  I  think  I'd  be 
quite  reconciled  to  the  work  of  a  schoolmaster. 


77 


CHAPTER  XII 
THINGS 

I  KEEP  resolving  and  resolving  to  reform  and  lead 
the  simple  life,  but  something  always  happens  that 
prevents  the  execution  of  my  plans.  When  I  am  grub- 
bing out  willows  along  the  ravine,  the  grubbing-hoe, 
a  lunch-basket  well  filled,  and  a  jug  of  water  from  the 
deep  well  up  there  under  the  trees  seem  to  be  the  sum 
total  of  the  necessary  appliances  for  a  life  of  useful- 
ness and  contentment.  There  is  a  friendly  maple-tree 
near  the  scene  of  the  grubbing  activities,  and  an  hour 
at  noon  beneath  that  tree  with  free  access  to  the 
basket  and  the  jug  seems  to  meet  the  utmost  demands 
of  life.  The  grass  is  luxuriant,  the  shade  is  all-em- 
bracing, and  the  willows  can  wait.  So,  what  additions 
can  possibly  be  needed?  I  lie  there  in  the  shade,  my 
hunger  and  thirst  abundantly  satisfied,  and  contem- 
plate the  results  of  my  forenoon's  toil  with  the  very 
acme  of  satisfaction.  There  is  now  a  large,  clear  space 
where  this  morning  there  was  a  jungle  of  willows.  The 
willows  have  been  grubbed  out  imis  sedibus,  as  our 
friend  Virgil  would  say  it,  and  not  merely  chopped  off; 
and  the  thoroughness  of  the  work  gives  emphasis  to 
the  satisfaction. 

78 


THINGS 

The  overalls,  the  heavy  shoes,  and  the  sunshade 
hat  all  belong  in  the  picture.  But  the  entire  ward- 
robe costs  less  than  the  hat  I  wear  on  Sunday.  Then 
the  comfort  of  these  inexpensive  habiliments !  I  need 
not  be  fastidious  in  such  a  garb,  but  can  loll  on  the 
grass  without  compunction.  When  I  get  mud  upon  my 
big  shoes  I  simply  scrape  it  off  with  a  chip,  and  that's 
all  there  is  to  it.  The  dirt  on  my  overalls  is  honest 
dirt,  and  honestly  come  by,  and  so  needs  no  apology. 
I  can  talk  to  my  neighbor  John  of  the  big  things  of 
life  and  feel  no  shame  because  of  overalls. 

Then,  in  the  evening,  when  resting  from  my  toil,  I 
sit  out  under  the  leafy  canopy  and  revel  in  the  sounds 
that  can  be  heard  only  in  the  country — the  croaking 
of  the  frogs,  the  soft  twittering  of  the  birds  somewhere 
near,  yet  out  of  sight,  the  cosey  crooning  of  the  chickens 
as  they  settle  upon  their  perches  for  the  night,  and  the 
lonely  hooting  of  the  owl  somewhere  in  the  big  tree 
down  in  the  pasture.  I  need  not  move  from  my  seat 
nor  barter  my  money  for  a  concert  in  some  majestic 
hall  ablaze  with  lights  when  such  music  as  this  may 
be  had  for  the  listening.  Under  the  magic  of  such 
music  the  body  relaxes  and  the  soul  expands.  The 
soft  breezes  caress  the  brow,  and  the  moon  makes 
shimmering  patterns  on  the  grass. 

But  when  I  return  to  the  town  to  resume  my  school- 
mastering,  then  the  strain  begins,  and  then  the  reign 
79 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

of  complexities  is  renewed.  When  I  am  fully  garbed 
in  my  town  clothing  I  find  myself  the  possessor  of 
nineteen  pockets.  What  they  are  all  for  is  more  than 
I  can  make  out.  If  I  had  them  all  in  use  I'd  have  to 
have  a  detective  along  with  me  to  help  me  find  things. 
Out  there  on  the  farm  two  pockets  quite  suffice,  but 
in  the  town  I  must  have  seventeen  more.  The  differ- 
ence between  town  and  country  seems  to  be  about  the 
difference  between  grubbing  willows  and  schoolmaster- 
ing.  Among  the  willows  I  find  two  pockets  are 
all  I  require;  but  among  the  children  I  must  needs 
have  nineteen,  whether  I  have  anything  in  them  or 
not. 

One  of  these  seems  to  be  designed  for  a  college 
degree;  another  is  an  efficiency  pocket;  another  a 
discipline  pocket;  another  a  pocket  for  methods; 
another  for  professional  spirit;  another  for  loyalty  to 
all  the  folks  who  are  in  need  of  loyalty,  and  so  on.  I 
really  do  not  know  all  the  labels.  When  I  was  exam- 
ined for  a  license  to  teach  they  counted  my  pockets, 
and,  finding  I  had  the  requisite  nineteen,  they  bestowed 
upon  me  the  coveted  document  with  something  ap- 
proaching Gclat.  In  my  teaching  I  become  so  bewil- 
dered ransacking  these  pockets,  trying  to  find  some- 
thing that  will  bear  some  resemblance  to  the  label, 
that  I  come  near  forgetting  the  boys  and  girls.  But 
they  are  very  nice  and  polite  about  it,  and  seem  to 
80 


THINGS 

feel  sorry  that  I  must  look  after  all  my  pockets  when 
I'd  so  much  rather  be  teaching. 

Out  in  the  willow  thicket  I  can  go  right  on  with  my 
work  without  so  much  care  or  perplexity.  Why,  I 
don't  need  to  do  any  talking  out  there,  and  so  have 
time  to  do  some  thinking.  But  here  I  do  so  much 
talking  that  neither  I  nor  my  pupils  have  any  chance 
for  thinking.  I  know  it  is  not  the  right  way,  but, 
somehow,  I  keep  on  doing  it.  I  think  it  must  be  a 
bad  habit,  but  I  don't  do  it  when  I  am  grubbing 
willows.  I  seem  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  things  out 
there  without  talking,  and  I  can't  make  out  why  I 
don't  do  the  same  here  in  the  school.  Out  there  I  do 
things;  hi  here  I  say  things.  I  do  wonder  if  there  is 
any  forgiveness  for  a  schoolmaster  who  uses  so  many 
words  and  gets  such  meagre  results. 

And  then  the  words  I  use  here  are  such  ponderous 
things.  They  are  not  the  sort  of  human,  flesh-and- 
blood  words  that  I  use  when  talking  to  neighbor  John 
as  we  sit  on  top  of  the  rail  fence.  These  all  seem  so 
like  words  in  a  book,  as  if  I  had  rehearsed  them  in 
advance.  It  may  be  just  the  town  atmosphere,  but, 
whatever  it  is,  I  do  wish  I  could  talk  to  these  children 
about  decimals  in  the  same  sort  of  words  that  I  use 
when  I  am  talking  with  John.  He  seems  to  under- 
stand me,  and  I  think  they  could. 

Possibly  it  is  just  the  tension  of  town  life.  I  know 
81 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

that  I  seem  to  get  keyed  up  as  soon  as  I  come  into 
the  town.  There  are  so  many  things  here,  and  many 
of  them  are  so  artificial  that  I  seem  unable  to  relax 
as  I  do  out  there  where  there  are  just  frogs,  and  moon, 
and  chickens,  and  cows.  When  I  am  here  I  seem  to 
have  a  sort  of  craze  for  things.  The  shop-windows  are 
full  of  things,  and  I  seem  to  want  all  of  them.  I  know 
I  have  no  use  for  them,  and  yet  I  get'them.  My  neigh- 
bor Brown  bought  a  percolator,  and  within  a  week  I 
had  one.  I  had  gone  on  for  years  without  a  percolator, 
not  even  knowing  about  such  a  thing,  but  no  sooner 
had  Brown  bought  one  than  every  sound  I  heard 
seemed  to  be  inquiring:  "What  is  home  without  a 
percolator?" 

So  I  go  on  accumulating  things,  and  my  den  is  a 
veritable  medley  of  things.  They  don't  make  me  any 
happier,  and  they  are  a  great  bother.  There  are  fifty- 
seven  things  right  here  in  my  den,  and  I  don't  need 
more  than  six  or  seven  of  them.  There  are  twenty- 
two  pictures,  large  and  small,  in  this  room,  but  I 
couldn't  have  named  five  of  them  had  I  not  just  counted 
them.  Why  I  have  them  is  beyond  my  comprehen- 
sion. I  inveigh  against  the  mania  of  people  for  drugs 
and  narcotics,  but  my  mania  for  things  only  differs  in 
kind  from  theirs.  I  have  a  little  book  called  "Things 
of  the  Mind,"  and  I  like  to  read  it.  Now,  if  my  mind 
only  had  as  many  things  in  it  as  my  den,  I'd  be  a  far 
82 


THINGS 

more  agreeable  associate  for  Brown  and  my  neighbor 
John.  Or,  if  I  were  as  careful  about  getting  things 
for  my  mind  as  I  am  in  accumulating  useless  bric-a- 
brac,  it  would  be  far  more  to  my  credit. 

If  the  germs  that  are  lurking  hi  and  about  these 
fifty-seven  things  should  suddenly  become  as  large  as 
spiders,  I'd  certainly  be  the  unhappy  possessor  of  a 
flourishing  menagerie,  and  I  think  my  progress  toward 
the  simple  life  would  be  very  promptly  hastened. 


83 


CHAPTER  XIII 
TARGETS 

T  N  my  work  as  a  schoolmaster  I  find  it  well  to  keep 
•••  my  mind  open  and  not  get  to  thinking  that  my 
way  is  the  only  way,  or  even  the  best  way.  I  think 
I  learn  more  from  my  boys  and  girls  than  they  learn 
from  me,  and  so  long  as  I  can  keep  an  open  mind  I 
am  certain  to  get  some  valuable  lessons  from  them. 
I  got  to  telling  the  college  chap  about  a  hen  that 
taught  me  a  good  lesson,  and  the  first  thing  I  knew  I 
was  going  to  school  to  this  college  youth,  and  he  was 
enlightening  me  on  the  subject  of  animal  psychology, 
and  especially  upon  the  trial-and-error  theory.  That 
set  me  wondering  how  many  trials  and  errors  that  hen 
made  before  she  finally  succeeded  in  surmounting  that 
fence.  At  any  rate,  the  hen  taught  me  another  lesson 
besides  the  lesson  of  perseverance. 

I  have  a  high  wire  fence  enclosing  the  chicken-yard, 
and  in  order  to  make  steady  the  posts  to  which  the 
gate  is  attached,  I  joined  them  at  the  top  by  nailing 
a  board  across.  The  hen  that  taught  me  the  lesson 
must  be  both  ambitious  and  athletic,  for  tune  after 
time  have  I  found  her  outside  the  chicken-yard.  I 
84 


TARGETS 

searched  diligently  for  the  place  of  exit,  but  could  not 
find  it.  So,  in  desperation,  I  determined  one  morning 
to  discover  how  that  hen  gained  her  freedom  if  it  took 
all  day.  So  I  found  a  comfortable  seat  and  waited. 
In  an  hour  or  so  the  hen  came  out  into  the  open  and 
took  a  survey  of  the  situation.  Then,  presently,  with 
skill  born  of  experience,  she  sidled  this  way  and  that, 
advanced  a  little  and  then  retreated  until  she  found 
the  exact  location  she  sought,  poised  herself  for  a 
moment,  and  went  sailing  right  over  the  board  that 
connected  the  posts.  Having  made  this  discovery,  I 
removed  the  board  and  used  wire  instead,  and  thus 
reduced  the  hen  to  the  plane  of  obedience. 

Just  as  soon  as  the  hen  lacked  something  to  aim  at, 
she  could  not  get  over  the  wire  barrier,  and  she  taught 
me  the  importance  of  giving  my  pupils  something  to 
aim  at.  I  like  my  boys  and  girls,  and  believe  they 
are  just  as  smart  as  any  hen  that  ever  was,  and  that, 
if  I'll  only  supply  things  for  them  to  aim  at,  they  will 
go  high  and  far.  Every  time  I  see  that  hen  I  am 
the  subject  of  diverse  emotions.  I  feel  half  angry  at 
myself  for  being  so  dull  that  a  mere  hen  can  teach 
me,  and  then  I  feel  glad  that  she  taught  me  such  a 
useful  lesson.  Before  learning  this  lesson  I  seemed 
to  expect  my  pupils  to  take  all  then*  school  work  on 
faith,  to  do  it  because  I  told  them  it  would  be  good 
for  them.  But  I  now  see  there  is  a  better  way.  In 
85 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

my  boyhood  days  we  always  went  to  the  county  fair, 
and  that  was  one  of  the  real  events  of  the  year.  On 
the  morning  of  that  day  there  was  no  occasion  for  any 
one  to  call  me  a  second  time.  I  was  out  of  bed  in  a 
trice,  at  the  first  call,  and  soon  had  my  chores  done 
ready  for  the  start.  I  had  money  in  my  pocket,  too, 
for  visions  of  pink  lemonade,  peanuts,  ice-cream, 
candy,  and  colored  balloons  had  lured  me  on  from 
achievement  to  achievement  through  the  preceding 
weeks,  and  thrift  had  claimed  me  for  its  own.  So  I 
had  money  because,  all  the  while,  I  had  been  aiming 
at  the  county  fair. 

We  used  to  lay  out  corn  ground  with  a  single-shovel 
plough,  and  took  great  pride  in  marking  out  a  straight 
furrow  across  the  field.  There  was  one  man  in  the 
neighborhood  who  was  the  champion  in  this  art,  and 
I  wondered  how  he  could  do  it.  So  I  set  about  watch- 
ing him  to  try  to  learn  his  art.  At  either  end  of  the 
field  he  had  a  stake  several  feet  high,  bedecked  at  the 
top  with  a  white  rag.  This  he  planted  at  the  proper 
distance  from  the  preceding  furrow  and,  in  going  across 
the  field,  kept  his  gaze  fixed  upon  the  white  rag  that 
topped  the  stake.  With  a  firm  grip  upon  the  plough, 
and  his  eyes  riveted  upon  the  white  signal,  he  moved 
across  the  field  in  a  perfectly  straight  line.  I  had 
thought  it  the  right  way  to  keep  my  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  plough  until  his  practice  showed  me  that  I  had 
86 


TARGETS 

pursued  the  wrong  course.  My  furrows  were  crooked 
and  zigzag,  while Jlis  were  straight.  I  now  see  that  his 
skill  came  from  his  having  something  to  aim  at. 

I  am  trying  to  profit  by  the  example  of  that  farmer 
in  my  teaching.  I'm  all  the  while  in  quest  of  stakes 
and  white  rags  to  place  at  the  other  side  of  the  field 
to  direct  the  progress  of  the  lads  and  lasses  in  a  straight 
course,  and  raise  their  eyes  away  from  the  plough  that 
they  happen  to  be  using.  I  want  to  keep  them  think- 
ing of  things  that  are  bigger  and  further  along  than 
grades.  The  grades  will  come  as  a  matter  of  course, 
if  they  can  keep  their  eyes  on  the  object  across  the 
field.  I  want  them  to  be  too  big  to  work  for  mere 
grades.  We  never  give  prizes  in  our  school,  especially 
money  prizes.  It  would  seem  rather  a  cheap  enter- 
prise to  my  fine  boys  and  girls  to  get  a  piece  of  money 
for  committing  to  memory  the  "Gettysburg  Speech." 
We  respect  ourselves  and  Lincoln  too  much  for  that. 
It  would  grieve  me  to  know  that  one  of  my  girls  could 
be  hired  to  read  a  book  for  an  hour  in  the  evening  to 
a  sick  neighbor.  I  want  her  to  have  her  pay  in  a  better 
and  more  enduring  medium  than  that.  I'd  hope  she 
would  aim  at  something  higher  than  that. 

If  I  can  arrange  the  white  rag,  I  know  the  pupils  will 

do  the  work.    There  was  Jim,  for  example,  who  said 

to  his  father  that  he  just  couldn't  do  his  arithmetic, 

and  wished  he'd  never  have  to  go  to  school  another 

87 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

day.  When  his  father  told  me  about  it  I  began  at 
once  to  hunt  for  a  white  rag.  And  I  found  it,  too. 
We  can  generally  find  what  we  are  looking  for,  if  we 
look  in  dead  earnest.  Well,  the  next  morning  there 
was  Jim  in  the  arithmetic  class  along  with  Tom  and 
Charley.  I  explained  the  absence  of  Harry  by  telling 
them  about  his  falling  on  the  ice  the  night  before  and 
breaking  his  right  arm.  I  told  them  how  he  could 
get  on  well  enough  with  his  other  studies,  but  would 
have  trouble  with  his  arithmetic  because  he  couldn't 
use  his  arm.  Now,  Tom  and  Charley  are  quick  hi 
arithmetic,  and  I  asked  Tom  to  go  over  to  Harry's 
after  school  and  help  with  the  arithmetic,  and  Charley 
to  go  over  the  next  day,  and  Jim  the  third  day.  Now, 
anybody  can  see  that  white  rag  fluttering  at  the  top 
of  the  stake  across  the  field  two  days  ahead.  So,  my 
work  was  done,  and  I  went  on  with  my  daily  duties. 
Tom  reported  the  next  day,  and  his  report  made  our 
mouths  water  as  he  told  of  the  good  things  that  Harry's 
mother  had  set  out  for  them  to  eat.  The  report  of 
Charley  the  next  day  was  equally  alluring.  Then 
Jim  reported,  and  on  his  day  that  good  mother  had 
evidently  reached  the  climax  in  culinary  affairs. 
Jim's  eyes  and  face  shone  as  if  he  had  been  communing 
with  the  supernals. 

That  was  the  last  I  ever  heard  of  Jim's  trouble  with 
arithmetic.    His  father  was  eager  to  know  how  the 
88 


TARGETS 

change  had  been  brought  about,  and  I  explained  on 
the  score  of  the  angel-food  cake  and  ice-cream  he  had 
had  over  at  Harry's,  with  no  slight  mention  of  my 
glorious  white  rag.  The  books,  I  believe,  call  this 
social  co-operation,  or  something  like  that,  but  I  care 
little  what  they  call  it  so  long  as  Jim's  all  right.  And 
he  is  all  right.  Why,  there  isn't  money  enough  in 
the  bank  to  have  brought  that  look  to  Jim's  face  when 
he  reported  that  morning,  and  any  offer  to  pay  him 
for  his  help  to  Harry,  either  in  money  or  school  credits, 
would  have  seemed  an  insult.  My  neighbor  John  tells 
me  many  things  about  sheep  and  the  way  to  drive 
them.  He  says  when  he  is  driving  twenty  sheep  along 
the  road  he  doesn't  bother  about  the  two  who  frisk 
back  to  the  rear  of  the  flock  so  long  as  he  keeps  the 
other  eighteen  going  along.  He  says  those  two  will 
join  the  others,  all  in  good  time.  That  helped  me  with 
those  three  boys.  I  knew  that  Tom  and  Charley 
would  go  along  all  right,  so  asked  them  to  go  over  to 
Harry's  before  I  mentioned  the  matter  to  Jim.  When 
I  did  ask  him  he  came  leaping  and  frisking  into  the 
flock  as  if  he  were  afraid  we  might  overlook  him. 
What  a  beautiful  straight  furrow  he  ploughed,  too. 
His  arithmetic  work  now  must  make  the  angels  smile. 
I  shall  certainly  mention  sheep,  the  hen,  and  the 
white  rag  in  my  book  on  farm  pedagogy. 


89 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SINNERS 

I  TAKE  unction  to  myself,  sometimes,  in  the  reflec- 
tion that  I  have  a  soul  to  save,  and  in  certain 
moments  of  uplift  it  seems  to  me  to  be  worth  saving. 
Some  folks  probably  call  me  a  sinner,  if  not  a  dread- 
ful sinner,  and  I  admit  the  fact  without  controversy. 
I  do  not  have  at  hand  a  list  of  the  cardinal  sins,  but  I 
suspect  I  might  prove  an  alibi  as  to  some  of  them.  I 
don't  get  drunk;  I  don't  swear;  I  go  to  church;  and 
I  contribute,  mildly,  to  charity.  But,  for  all  that, 
I'm  free  to  confess  myself  a  sinner.  Yet,  I  still  don't 
know  what  sin  is,  or  what  is  the  way  of  salvation 
either  for  myself  or  for  my  pupils.  I  grope  around 
all  the  while  trying  to  find  this  way.  At  times,  I 
think  they  may  find  salvation  while  they  are  finding 
the  value  of  x  in  an  algebraic  equation,  and  possibly 
this  is  true.  I  cannot  tell.  If  they  fail  to  find  the 
value  of  x,  I  fall  to  wondering  whether  they  have 
sinned  or  the  teacher  that  they  cannot  find  x. 

I  have  attended  revivals  in  my  time,  and  have  had 
good  from  them.     In  their  pure  and  rarefied  atmos- 
phere I  find  myself  in  a  state  of  exaltation.    But  I 
90 


SINNERS 

find  myself  in  need  of  a  continuous  revival  to  keep 
me  at  my  best.  So,  in  my  school  work,  I  feel  that  I 
must  be  a  revivalist  or  my  pupils  will  sag  back,  just 
as  I  do.  I  find  that  the  revival  of  yesterday  will  not 
suffice  for  to-day.  Like  the  folks  of  old,  I  must  gather 
a  fresh  supply  of  manna  each  day.  Stale  manna  is 
not  wholesome.  I  suspect  that  one  of  my  many  sins 
is  my  laziness  in  the  matter  of  manna.  I  found  the 
value  of  2  in  the  problem  yesterday,  and  so  am  in- 
clined to  rest  to-day  and  celebrate  the  victory.  If  I 
had  to  classify  myself,  I'd  say  that  I  am  an  intermit- 
tent. I  eat  manna  one  day,  and  then  want  to  fast 
for  a  day  or  so.  I  suspect  that's  what  folks  mean  by 
a  besetting  sin. 

During  my  fasting  I  find  myself  talking  almost 
fluently  about  my  skill  and  industry  as  a  gatherer  of 
manna.  I  suspect  I  am  trying  to  make  myself  believe 
that  I'm  working  in  the  manna  field  to-day,  by  keeping 
my  mind  on  my  achievement  yesterday.  That's  an- 
other sin  to  my  discredit,  and  another  occasion  for  a 
revival.  When  I  am  fasting  I  do  the  most  talking 
about  how  busy  I  am.  If  I  were  harvesting  manna 
I'd  not  have  time  for  so  much  talk.  I  should  not  need 
to  tell  how  busy  I  am,  for  folks  could  see  for  themselves. 
I  have  tried  to  analyze  this  talk  of  mine  about  being 
so  busy  just  to  see  whether  I  am  trying  to  deceive  my- 
self or  my  neighbors.  I  fell  to  talking  about  this  the 
91 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

other  day  to  my  neighbor  John,  and  detected  a  faint 
smile  on  his  face  which  I  interpreted  to  be  a  query  as 
to  what  I  have  to  show  for  all  my  supposed  industry. 
Well,  I  changed  the  subject.  That  smile  on  John's 
face  made  me  think  of  revivals. 

I  read  Henderson's  novel,  "John  Percyfield,"  and 
enjoyed  it  so  much  that  when  I  came  upon  his  other 
book,  "Education  and  the  Larger  Life,"  I  bought  and 
read  it.  But  it  has  given  me  much  discomfort.  In 
that  book  he  says  that  it  is  unmoral  for  any  one  to 
do  less  than  his  best.  I  can  scarcely  think  of  that 
statement  without  feeling  that  I  ought  to  be  sent  to 
jail.  I'm  actually  burdened  with  immorality,  and  find 
myself  all  the  while  between  the  "devil  and  the  deep 
sea,"  the  "devil"  of  work,  and  the  "deep  sea"  of  im- 
morality. I  suppose  that's  why  I  talk  so  much  about 
being  busy,  trying  to  free  myself  from  the  charge  of 
immorality.  I  think  it  was  Virgil  who  said  Facilis 
descensus  Averno,  and  I  suppose  Mr.  Henderson,  hi 
his  statement,  is  trying  to  save  me  from  the  inconve- 
niences of  this  trip.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  grateful 
to  him  for  the  hint,  but  I  just  can't  get  any  great  com- 
fort hi  such  a  close  situation. 

I  know  I  must  work  or  go  hungry,  and  I  can  stand 

a  certain  amount  of  fasting,  but  to  be  stamped  as 

immoral  because  I  am  fasting  rather  hurts  my  pride. 

I'd  much  rather  have  my  going  hungry  accounted  a 

92 


SINNERS 

virtue,  and  receive  praise  and  bouquets.  When  I  am 
in  a  lounging  mood  it  isn't  any  fun  to  have  some 
Henderson  come  along  and  tell  me  that  I  am  in  need 
of  a  revival.  A  copy  of  "Baedeker"  in  hand,  I  have 
gone  through  a  gallery  of  statues  but  did  not  find  a 
sinner  in  the  entire  company.  The  originals  may  have 
been  sinners,  but  not  these  marble  statues.  That  is 
some  comfort.  To  be  a  sinner  one  must  be  animate 
at  the  very  least.  I'd  rather  be  a  sinner,  even,  than 
a  mummy  or  a  statue.  St.  Paul  wrote  to  Timothy: 
"I  have  fought  a  good  fight,  I  have  finished  my  course, 
I  have  kept  the  faith."  There  was  nothing  of  the 
mummy  or  the  statue  in  him.  He  was  just  a  straight- 
away sinful  man,  and  a  glorious  sinner  he  was. 

I  like  to  think  of  Titian  and  Michael  Angelo.  When 
their  work  was  done  and  they  stood  upon  the  summit 
of  their  achievements  they  were  up  so  high  that  all 
they  had  to  do  was  to  step  right  into  heaven,  without 
any  long  journey.  Tennyson  did  the  same.  In  his 
poem,  "Crossing  the  Bar,"  he  filled  all  the  space,  and 
so  he  had  to  cross  over  into  heaven  to  get  more  room. 
And  Riley's  "Old  Aunt  Mary"  was  another  one.  She 
had  been  working  out  her  salvation  making  jelly,  and 
jam,  and  marmalade,  and  just  beaming  goodness  upon 
those  boys  so  that  they  had  no  more  doubts  about 
goodness  than  they  had  of  the  peach  preserves  they 
were  eating.  Why,  there  just  had  to  be  a  heaven  for 
93 


REVERIES  OF  A   SCHOOLMASTER 

old  Aunt  Mary.  She  gathered  manna  every  day,  and 
had  some  for  the  boys,  too,  but  never  said  a  word 
about  being  busy. 

When  I  was  reading  the  Georgics  with  my  boys,  we 
came  upon  the  word  bufo  (toad),  and  I  told  them  with 
much  gusto  that  that  was  the  only  place  in  the  lan- 
guage where  the  word  occurs.  I  had  come  upon  this 
statement  in  a  book  that  they  did  not  have.  Their 
looks  spoke  their  admiration  for  the  schoolmaster  who 
could  speak  with  authority.  After  they  had  gone 
their  ways,  two  to  Porto  Rico,  one  to  Chili,  another 
to  Brazil,  and  others  elsewhere,  I  came  upon  the  word 
bufo  again  in  Ovid.  I  am  still  wondering  what  a 
schoolmaster  ought  to  do  in  a  case  like  that.  Even 
if  I  had  written  to  all  those  fellows  acknowledging  my 
error,  it  would  have  been  too  late,  for  they  would, 
long  before,  have  circulated  the  report  all  over  South 
America  and  the  United  States  that  there  is  but  one 
toad  in  the  Latin  language.  If  I  hadn't  believed 
everything  I  see  in  print,  hadn't  been  so  cock-sure,  and 
hadn't  been  so  ready  to  parade  borrowed  plumage  as 
my  own,  all  this  linguistic  coil  would  have  been  averted. 
I  suppose  Mr.  Henderson  would  send  me  to  jail  again 
for  this.  I  certainly  didn't  do  my  best,  and  therefore  I 
am  immoral,  and  therefore  a  sinner;  quod  erat  demon- 
strandum. 

So,  I  suppose,  if  I'm  to  save  my  soul,  I  must  gather 
94 


SINNERS 

manna  every  day,  and  if  I  find  the  value  of  x  to-day, 
I  must  find  the  value  of  a  bigger  x  to-morrow.  Then, 
too,  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  choose  between  Mrs.  Wiggs 
and' Emerson,  between  the  Katzen jammers  and  Shake- 
speare, and  between  ragtime  and  grand  opera.  I  am 
very  certain  growing  corn  gives  forth  a  sound  only  I 
can't  hear  it.  If  my  hearing  were  only  acute  enough 
I'd  hear  it  and  rejoice  in  it.  It  is  very  trying  to  miss 
the  sound  when  I  am  so  certain  that  it  is  there.  The 
birds  hi  my  trees  understand  one  another,  and  yet  I 
can't  understand  what  they  are  saying  in  the  least. 
This  simply  proves  my  own  limitations.  If  I  could 
but  know  then*  language,  and  all  the  languages  of  the 
cows,  the  sheep,  the  horses,  and  the  chickens,  what  a 
good  time  I  could  have  with  them.  If  my  powers  of 
sight  and  hearing  were  increased  only  tenfold,  I'd 
surely  find  a  different  world  about  me.  Here,  again, 
I  can't  find  the  value  of  x,  try  as  I  will. 

The  disquieting  thing  about  all  this  is  that  I  do  not 
use  to  the  utmost  the  powers  I  have.  I  could  see 
many  more  things  than  I  do  if  I'd  only  use  my  eyes, 
and  hear  things,  too,  if  I'd  try  more.  The  world  of 
nature  as  it  reveals  itself  to  John  Burroughs  is  a  thou- 
sand times  larger  than  my  world,  no  doubt,  and  this 
fact  convicts  me  of  doing  less  than  my  best,  and  again 
the  jail  invites  me. 


95 


CHAPTER  XV 
HOEING  POTATOES 

AS  I  was  lying  in  the  shade  of  the  maple-tree  down 
there  by  the  ravine,  yesterday,  I  fell  to  thinking 
about  my  rights,  and  the  longer  I  lay  there  the  more 
puzzled  I  became.  Being  a  citizen  in  a  democracy, 
I  have  many  rights  that  are  guaranteed  to  me  by  the 
Constitution,  notably  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of 
happiness.  In  my  school  I  become  expansive  in  ex- 
tolling these  rights  to  my  pupils.  But  under  that 
maple-tree  I  found  myself  raising  many  questions  as 
to  these  rights,  and  many  others.  I  have  a  right  to 
sing  tenor,  but  I  can't  sing  tenor  at  all,  and  when  I 
try  it  I  disturb  my  neighbors.  Right  there  I  bump 
against  a  situation.  I  have  a  right  to  use  my  knife 
at  table  instead  of  a  fork,  and  who  is  to  gainsay  my 
using  my  fingers?  Queen  Elizabeth  did.  I  certainly 
have  a  right  to  lie  in  the  shade  of  the  maple-tree  for 
two  hours  to-day  instead  of  one  hour,  as  I  did  yester- 
day. I  wonder  if  reclining  on  the  grass  under  a  maple- 
tree  is  not  a  part  of  the  pursuit  of  happiness  that  is 
specifically  set  out  in  the  Constitution?  I  hope  so, 
for  I'd  like  to  have  that  wonderful  Constitution  back- 
96 


HOEING  POTATOES 

ing  me  up  in  the  things  I  like  to  do.  The  sun  is  so 
hot  and  hoeing  potatoes  is  such  a  tiring  task  that  I 
prefer  to  lounge  in  the  shade  with  my  back  against  the 
Constitution. 

In  thinking  of  the  pursuit  of  happiness  I  am  inclined 
to  personify  happiness  and  then  watch  the  chase,  won- 
dering whether  the  pursuer  will  ever  overtake  her,  and 
what  he'll  do  when  he  does.  I  note  that  the  Con- 
stitution does  not  guarantee  that  the  pursuer  will  ever 
catch  her — but  just  gives  him  an  open  field  and  no 
favors.  He  may  run  just  as  fast  as  he  likes,  and  as 
long  as  his  endurance  holds  out.  I  suspect  that's 
where  the  liberty  comes  in.  I  wonder  if  the  makers 
of  the  Constitution  ever  visualized  that  chase.  If  so, 
they  must  have  laughed,  at  least  in  their  sleeves,  solemn 
crowd  that  they  were.  If  I  were  certain  that  I  could 
overtake  happiness  I'd  gladly  join  in  the  pursuit,  even 
on  such  a  warm  day  as  this,  but  the  dread  uncertainty 
makes  me  prefer  to  loll  here  in  the  shade.  Besides, 
I'm  not  quite  certain  that  I  could  recognize  her  even 
if  I  could  catch  her.  The  photographs  that  I  have 
seen  are  so  very  different  that  I  might  mistake  happi- 
ness for  some  one  else,  and  that  would  be  embarrassing. 

If  I  should  conclude  that  I  was  happy,  and  then 
discover  that  I  wasn't,  I  scarcely  see  how  I  could  ex- 
plain myself  to  myself,  much  less  to  others.  So  I 
shall  go  on  hoeing  my  potatoes  and  not  bother  my 
97 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

poor  head  about  happiness.  It  is  just  possible  that 
I  shall  find  it  over  there  in  the  potato-patch,  for  its 
latitude  and  longitude  have  never  been  definitely  de- 
termined, so  far  as  I  am  aware.  I  know  I  shall  find 
some  satisfaction  over  there  at  work,  and  I  am  con- 
vinced that  satisfaction  and  happiness  are  kinsfolk. 
Possibly  my  potatoes  will  prove  the  answer  to  some 
mother's  prayer  for  food  for  her  little  ones  next  winter. 
Who  knows?  As  I  loosen  the  soil  about  the  vines  I  can 
look  down  the  vista  of  the  months,  and  see  some  little 
one  in  his  high  chair  smiling  through  his  tears  as 
mother  prepares  one  of  my  beautiful  potatoes  for  him, 
and  I  think  I  can  detect  some  moisture  in  mother's 
eyes,  too.  It  is  just  possible  that  her  tears  are  the 
consecrated  incense  upon  the  altar  of  thanksgiving. 

I  like  to  see  such  pictures  as  I  ply  my  hoe,  for  they 
give  me  respite  from  weariness,  and  give  fresh  ardor 
to  my  hoeing.  If  each  one  of  my  potatoes  shall  only 
assuage  the  hunger  of  some  little  one,  and  cause  the 
mother's  eyes  to  distil  tears  of  joy,  I  shall  be  in  the 
border-land  of  happiness,  to  say  the  least.  I  had  fully 
intended  to  exercise  my  inalienable  rights  and  lie  in 
the  shade  for  two  hours  to-day,  but  when  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  that  little  chap  in  the  high  chair,  and  heard 
his  pitiful  plea  for  potatoes,  I  made  for  the  potato- 
patch  post-haste,  as  if  I  were  responding  to  a  hurry 
call.  I  suppose  there  is  no  more  heart-breaking  sound 
98 


HOEING  POTATOES 

in  nature  than  the  crying  of  a  hungry  child.  I  have 
been  whistling  all  the  afternoon  along  with  my  hoeing, 
and  now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  must  be  whistling  because 
my  pototoes  are  going  to  make  that  baby  laugh. 

Well,  if  they  do,  then  I  shall  elevate  the  hoeing  of 
potatoes  to  the  rank  of  a  privilege.  Oh,  I've  read  my 
"Tom  Sawyer,"  and  know  about  his  enterprise  in  get- 
ting the  fence  whitewashed  by  making  the  task  seem 
a  privilege.  But  Tom  was  indulging  in  fiction,  and 
hoeing  potatoes  is  no  fiction.  Still  those  whitewash 
artists  had  something  of  the  feeling  that  I  experience 
right  now,  only  there  was  no  baby  in  their  picture  as 
there  is  in  mine,  and  so  I  have  the  baby  as  an  addi- 
tional privilege.  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  make  all  the 
school  tasks  rank  as  privileges  to  my  boys  and  girls. 
If  I  could  only  do  that,  they  would  have  gone  far 
toward  a  liberal  education.  If  I  could  only  get  a 
baby  to  crying  somewhere  out  beyond  cube  root  I'm 
sure  they  would  struggle  through  the  mazes  of  that 
subject,  somehow,  so  as  to  get  to  the  baby  to  change 
its  crying  into  laughter.  'Tis  worth  trying. 

I  wonder,  after  all,  whether  education  is  not  the 
process  of  shifting  the  emphasis  from  rights  to  priv- 
ileges. I  have  a  right,  when  I  go  into  the  town,  to 
keep  my  seat  in  the  car  and  let  the  old  lady  use  the 
strap.  If  I  insist  upon  that  right  I  feel  myself  a  boor, 
lacking  the  sense  and  sensibilities  of  a  gentleman. 
99 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

But  when  I  relinquish  my  seat  I  feel  that  I  have  exer- 
cised my  privilege  to  be  considerate  and  courteous. 
I  have  a  right  to  permit  weeds  and  briers  to  overrun 
my  fences,  and  the  fences  themselves  to  go  to  rack, 
and  so  offend  the  sight  of  my  neighbors;  but  I  esteem 
it  a  privilege  to  make  the  premises  clean  and  beautiful, 
so  as  to  add  so  much  to  the  sum  total  of  pleasure.  I 
have  a  right  to  stay  on  my  own  side  of  the  road  and 
keep  to  myself;  but  it  is  a  great  privilege  to  go  up 
for  a  half-hour's  exchange  of  talk  with  my  neighbor 
John.  He  always  clears  the  cobwebs  from  my  eyes  and 
from  my  soul,  and  I  return  to  my  work  refreshed. 

I  have  a  right,  too,  to  pore  over  the  colored  supple- 
ment for  an  hour  or  so,  but  when  I  am  able  to  rise  to 
my  privileges  and  take  the  Book  of  Job  instead,  I  feel 
that  I  have  made  a  gain  in  self-respect,  and  can  stand 
more  nearly  erect.  I  have  a  right,  when  I  go  to  church, 
to  sit  silent  and  look  bored;  but,  when  I  avail  myself 
of  the  privilege  of  joining  in  the  responses  and  the 
singing,  I  feel  that  I  am  fertilizing  my  spirit  for  the 
truth  that  is  proclaimed.  As  a  citizen  I  have  certain 
rights,  but  when  I  come  to  think  of  my  privileges  my 
rights  seem  puny  in  comparison.  Then,  too,  my  rights 
are  such  cold  things,  but  my  privileges  are  full  of  sun- 
shine and  of  joy.  My  rights  seem  mathematical,  while 
my  privileges  seem  curves  of  beauty. 

In  his  scientific  laboratory  at  Princeton,  on  one 
100 


HOEING  POTATOES 

occasion,  the  celebrated  Doctor  Hodge,  in  preparing 
for  an  experiment  said  to  some  students  who  were 
gathered  about  him:  "Gentlemen,  please  remove  your 
hats;  I  am  about  to  ask  God  a  question."  So  it  is 
with  every  one  who  esteems  his  privileges.  He  is 
asking  God  questions  about  the  glory  of  the  sunrise, 
the  fragrance  of  the  flowers,  the  colors  of  the  rainbow, 
the  music  of  the  brook,  and  the  meaning  of  the  stars. 
But  I  hear  a  baby  crying  and  must  get  back  to  my 
potatoes. 


101 


CHAPTER  XVI 
CHANGING  THE  MIND 

T  HAVE  been  reading,  in  this  book,  of  a  man  who 
•*•  couldn't  change  his  mind  because  his  intellectual 
wardrobe  was  not  sufficient  to  warrant  a  change.  I 
was  feeling  downright  sorry  for  the  poor  fellow  till  I 
got  to  wondering  how  many  people  are  feeling  sorry 
for  me  for  the  same  reason.  That  reflection  changed 
the  situation  greatly,  and  I  began  to  feel  some  resent- 
ment against  the  blunt  statement  in  the  book  as  being 
rather  too  personal.  Just  as  I  begin  to  think  that  we 
have  standardized  a  lot  of  things,  along  comes  some  one 
in  a  book,  or  elsewhere,  and  completely  upsets  my  fine 
and  comforting  theories  and  projects  me  into  chaos 
again.  No  sooner  do  I  get  a  lot  of  facts  all  nicely  set- 
tled, and  begin  to  enjoy  complacency,  than  some  dis- 
turber of  the  peace  knocks  all  my  facts  topsy-turvy,  and 
says  they  are  not  facts  at  all,  but  the  merest  fiction. 
Then  I  cry  aloud  with  my  old  friend  Cicero,  Ubinam 
gentium  sumus,  which,  being  translated  in  the  language 
of  the  boys,  means,  "Where  in  the  world  (or  nation) 
are  we  at?"  They  are  actually  trying  to  reform  my 
spelling.  I  do  wish  these  reformers  had  come  around 
sooner,  when  I  was  learning  to  spell  phthisic,  syzygy, 
daguerreotype,  and  caoutchouc.  They  might  have  saved 
102 


CHANGING  THE  MIND 

me  a  deal  of  trouble  and  helped  me  over  some  of  the 
high  places  at  the  old-fashioned  spelling-bees. 

I  have  a  friend  who  is  quite  versed  in  science,  and 
he  tells  me  that  any  book  on  science  that  is  more  than 
ten  years  old  is  obsolete.  Now,  that  puzzles  me  no 
little.  If  that  is  true,  why  don't  they  wait  till  matters 
scientific  are  settled,  and  then  write  then*  books?  Why 
write  a  book  at  all  when  you  know  that  day  after  to- 
morrow some  one  will  come  along  and  refute  all  the 
theories  and  mangle  the  facts?  These  science  chaps 
must  spend  a  great  deal  of  their  time  changing  their 
intellectual  clothing.  It  would  be  great  fun  to  come 
back  a  hundred  years  from  now  and  read  the  books  on 
science,  psychology,  and  pedagogy.  I  suppose  the 
books  we  have  now  will  seem  like  joke  books  to  our 
great-grandchildren,  if  people  are  compelled  to  change 
their  mental  garments  every  day  from  now  on.  I 
wonder  how  long  it  will  take  us  human  coral  insects 
to  get  our  building  up  to  the  top  of  the  water. 

Whoever  it  was  that  said  that  consistency  is  a  jewel 
would  need  to  take  treatment  for  his  eyes  in  these 
days.  If  I  must  change  my  mental  garb  each  day 
I  don't  see  how  I  can  be  consistent.  If  I  said  yester- 
day that  some  theory  of  science  is  the  truth,  the  whole 
truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  and  then  find  a  re- 
vision of  the  statement  necessary  to-day,  I  certainly 
am  inconsistent.  This  jewel  of  consistency  certainly 
103 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

loses  its  lustre,  if  not  its  identity,  in  such  a  process  of 
shifting.  I  do  hope  these  chameleon  artists  will  leave 
us  the  multiplication  table,  the  yardstick,  and  the 
ablative  absolute.  I'm  not  so  particular  about  the 
wine-gallon,  for  prohibition  will  probably  do  away  with 
that  anyhow.  When  I  was  in  school  I  could  tell  to  a 
foot  the  equatorial  and  the  polar  diameter  of  the  earth, 
and  what  makes  the  difference.  Why,  I  knew  all  about 
that  flattening  at  the  poles,  and  how  it  came  about. 
Then  Mr.  Peary  went  up  there  and  tramped  all  over 
the  north  pole,  and  never  said  a  word  about  the 
flattening  when  he  came  back.  I  was  very  much  dis- 
appointed in  Mr.  Peary. 

I  know,  quite  as  well  as  I  know  my  own  name,  that 
the  length  of  the  year  is  three  hundred  and  sixty-five 
days,  five  hours,  forty-eight  minutes,  and  forty-eight 
seconds,  and  if  I  find  any  one  trying  to  lop  off  even 
one  second  of  my  hard-learned  year,  I  shall  look  upon 
him  as  a  meddler.  That  is  one  of  my  settled  facts, 
and  I  don't  care  to  have  it  disturbed.  If  any  one 
comes  along  trying  to  change  the  length  of  my  year, 
I  shall  begin  to  tremble  for  the  safety  of  the  Ten 
Commandments.  If  I  believe  that  a  grasshopper  is  a 
quadruped,  what  satisfaction  could  I  possibly  take  in 
discovering  that  he  has  six  legs  ?  It  would  merely  dis- 
turb one  of  my  settled  facts,  and  I  am  more  interested 
in  my  facts  than  I  am  in  the  grasshopper.  The  trouble 
104 


CHANGING  THE  MIND 

is,  though,  that  my  neighbor  John  keeps  referring  to 
the  grasshopper's  six  legs;  so  I  suppose  I  shall,  in  the 
end,  get  me  a  grasshopper  suit  of  clothes  so  as  to  be 
in  the  fashion. 

This  discarding  of  my  four-legged  grasshopper  and 
supplying  myself  with  one  that  has  six  legs  may  be 
what  the  poet  means  when  he  speaks  of  our  dead 
selves.  He  may  refer  to  the  new  suit  of  mental  cloth- 
ing that  I  am  supposed  to  get  each  day,  to  the  change 
of  mind  that  I  am  supposed  to  undergo  as  regularly  as 
a  daily  bath.  Possibly  Mr.  Holmes  meant  something 
like  that  when  he  wrote  his  "Chambered  Nautilus." 
At  each  advance  from  one  of  these  compartments  to 
another,  I  suppose  I  acquire  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  or, 
in  other  words,  change  my  mind.  Let's  see,  wasn't 
it  Theseus  whose  eternal  punishment  in  Hades  was 
just  to  sit  there  forever?  That  seems  somewhat 
heavenly  to  me.  But  here  on  earth  I  suppose  I  must 
try  to  keep  up  with  the  styles,  and  change  my  mental 
gear  day  by  day. 

I  think  I  might  come  to  enjoy  a  change  of  suits 
every  day  if  only  some  one  would  provide  them  for 
me;  but,  if  I  must  earn  them  myself,  the  case  is  differ- 
ent. I'd  like  to  have  some  one  bestow  upon  me  a 
beautiful  Greek  suit  for  Monday,  with  its  elegance, 
grace,  and  dignity,  a  Roman  suit  for  Tuesday,  a  science 
suit  for  Wednesday,  a  suit  of  poetry  for  Thursday,  and 
105 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

so  on,  day  after  day.  But  when  I  must  read  all  of 
Homer  before  I  can  have  the  Greek  suit,  the  price 
seems  a  bit  stiff,  and  I'm  not  so  avid  about  changing 
my  mind.  We  had  a  township  picnic  back  home,  once, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  attending  a  congress 
of  nations,  for  there  were  people  there  who  had  driven 
five  or  six  miles  from  the  utmost  bounds  of  the  town- 
ship. That  was  a  real  mental  adventure,  and  it  took 
some  time  for  me  to  adjust  myself  to  my  new  suit. 
Then  I  went  to  the  county  fair,  where  were  gathered 
people  from  all  the  townships,  and  my  poor  mind  had 
a  mighty  struggle  trying  to  grasp  the  immensity  of  the 
thing.  I  felt  much  the  same  as  when  I  was  trying  to 
understand  the  mathematical  sign  of  infinity.  And 
when  I  came  upon  the  statement,  in  my  geography, 
that  there  are  eighty-eight  counties  in  our  State,  the 
mind  balked  absolutely  and  refused  to  go  on.  I  felt 
as  did  the  old  gentleman  who  saw  an  aeroplane  for  the 
first  time.  After  watching  its  gyrations  for  some  tune 
he  finally  exclaimed:  "They  ain't  no  sich  thing." 

My  college  roommate,  Mack,  went  over  to  London, 
once,  on  some  errand,  and  of  course  went  to  the 
British  Museum.  Near  the  entrance  he  came  upon 
the  Rosetta  Stone,  and  stood  inthralled.  He  reflected 
that  he  was  standing  hi  the  presence  of  a  monument 
that  marks  the  beginning  of  recorded  history,  that 
back  of  that  all  was  dark,  and  that  all  the  books  in 
106 


all  the  libraries  emanate  from  that  beginning.  The 
thought  was  so  big,  so  overmastering,  that  there  was 
no  room  in  his  mind  for  anything  else,  so  he  turned 
about  and  left  without  seeing  anything  else  in  the 
Museum.  Since  then  we  have  had  many  a  big  laugh 
together  as  he  recounts  to  me  his  wonderful  visit  to 
the  Rosetta  Stone.  I  see  clearly  that  in  the  presence 
of  that  modest  stone  he  got  all  the  mental  clothing  he 
could  possibly  wear  at  the  time.  Changing  the  mind 
sometimes  seems  to  amount  almost  to  surgery. 

Sometime,  if  I  can  get  my  stub  pen  Umbered  up  I 
shall  try  my  hand  at  writing  a  bit  of  a  composition  on 
the  subject  of  "The  Inequality  of  Equals."  I  know 
that  the  Declaration  tells  us  that  all  men  are  born 
free  and  equal,  and  I  shall  explain  in  my  essay  that  it 
means  us  to  understand  that  while  they  are  born 
equal,  they  begin  to  become  unequal  the  day  after 
they  are  born,  and  become  more  so  as  one  changes  his 
mind  and  the  other  one  does  not.  I  try,  all  the  while, 
to  make  myself  believe  that  I  am  the  equal  of  my 
neighbor,  the  judge,  and  then  I  feel  foolish  to  think 
that  I  ever  tried  it.  The  neighbors  all  know  it  isn't 
true,  and  so  do  I  when  I  quit  arguing  with  myself. 
He  has  such  a  long  start  of  me  now  that  I  wonder  if 
I  can  ever  overtake  him.  One  thing,  though,  I'm  re- 
solved upon,  and  that  is  to  change  my  mind  as  often 
as  possible. 

107 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE  POINT  OF  VIEW 

TUST  why  a  boy  is  averse  to  washing  his  neck  and 
*-J  ears  is  one  of  the  deep  problems  of  social  psy- 
chology, and  yet  the  psychologists  have  veered  away 
from  the  subject.  There  must  be  a  reason,  and  these 
mind  experts  ought  to  be  able  and  willing  to  find  it,  so 
as  to  relieve  the  anxiety  of  the  rest  of  us.  It  is  easy 
for  me  to  say,  with  a  full-arm  gesture,  that  a  boy  is 
of  the  earth  earthy,  but  that  only  begs  the  question, 
as  full-arm  gestures  are  wont  to  do.  Many  a  boy 
has  shed  copious  tears  as  he  sat  on  a  bench  outside  the 
kitchen  door  removing,  under  compulsion,  the  day's 
accumulations  from  his  feet  as  a  prerequisite  for  re- 
tiring. He  would  much  prefer  to  sleep  on  the  floor  to 
escape  the  foot-washing  ordeal.  Why,  pray,  should 
he  wash  his  feet  when  he  knows  full  well  that  to- 
morrow night  will  find  them  in  the  same  condition? 
Why  all  the  bother  and  trouble  about  a  little  thing  like 
that?  Why  can't  folks  let  a  fellow  alone,  anyhow? 
And,  besides,  he  went  in  swimming  this  afternoon,  and 
that  surely  ought  to  meet  all  the  exactions  of  capricious 
parents.  He  exhibits  his  feet  as  an  evidence  of  the 
108 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW 

virtue  of  going  swimming,  for  he  is  arranging  the  pre- 
liminaries for  another  swimming  expedition  to-morrow. 

I  recall  very  distinctly  how  strange  it  seemed  that 
my  father  could  sit  there  and  calmly  talk  about  being 
a  Democrat,  or  a  Republican,  or  a  Baptist,  or  a  Meth- 
odist, or  about  some  one's  discovering  the  north  pole, 
or  about  the  President's  message  when  the  dog  had  a 
rat  cornered  under  the  corn-crib  and  was  barking  like 
mad.  But,  then,  parents  can't  see  things  in  their 
right  relations  and  proportions.  And  there  sat 
mother,  too,  darning  stockings,  and  the  dog  just  stark 
crazy  about  that  rat.  'Tis  enough  to  make  a  boy  lose 
faith  in  parents  forevermore.  A  dog,  a  rat,  and  a  boy 
— there's  a  combination  that  recks  not  of  the  fall  of 
empires  or  the  tottering  of  thrones.  Even  chicken- 
noodles  must  take  second  place  in  such  a  scheme  of 
world  activities.  And  yet  a  mother  would  hold  a  boy 
back  from  the  forefront  of  such  an  enterprise  to  wash 
his  neck.  Oh,  these  mothers ! 

I  have  read  "Adam's  Diary,"  by  Mark  Twain,  in 
which  he  tells  what  events  were  forward  in  Eden  on 
Monday,  what  on  Tuesday,  and  so  on  throughout  the 
week  till  he  came  to  Sunday,  and  his  only  comment 
on  that  day  was  "Pulled  through."  In  the  New  Eng- 
land Primer  we  gather  the  solemn  information  that 
"In  Adam's  fall,  we  sinned  all."  I  admit  the  fact 
freely  but  beg  to  be  permitted  to  plead  extenuating 
109 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

circumstances.  Adam  could  go  to  church  just  as  he 
was,  but  I  had  to  be  renovated  and,  at  tunes,  almost 
parboiled  and,  in  addition  to  these  indignities,  had 
to  wear  shoes  and  stockings;  and  the  stockings 
scratched  my  legs,  and  the  shoes  were  too  tight.  If 
Adam  could  barely  manage  to  pull  through,  just  think 
of  me.  Besides,  Adam  didn't  have  to  wear  a  paper 
collar  that  disintegrated  and  smeared  his  neck.  The 
more  I  think  of  Adam's  situation,  the  more  sorry  I  feel 
for  myself.  Why,  he  could  just  reach  out  and  pluck 
some  fruit  to  help  him  through  the  services,  but  I  had 
to  walk  a  mile  after  church,  in  those  tight  shoes,  and 
then  wait  an  hour  for  dinner.  And  I  was  supposed 
to  feel  and  act  religious  while  I  was  waiting,  but  I 
didn't. 

If  I  could  only  have  gone  to  church  barefoot,  with 
my  shirt  open  at  the  throat,  and  with  a  pocket  full  of 
cookies  to  munch  ad  lib  throughout  the  services,  I  am 
sure  that  the  spiritual  uplift  would  have  been  greater. 
The  soul  of  a  boy  doesn't  expand  violently  when  en- 
cased in  a  starched  shirt  and  a  paper  collar,  and  these 
surmounted  by  a  thick  coat,  with  the  mercury  at  ninety- 
seven  in  the  shade.  I  think  I  can  trace  my  religious 
retardation  back  to  those  hungry  Sundays,  those  tight 
shoes,  that  warm  coat,  and  those  frequent  jabs  in  my 
ribs  when  I  fain  would  have  slept. 

In  my  childhood  there  was  such  a  host  of  people 
110 


THE  POINT  OF   VIEW 

who  were  pushing  and  pulling  me  about  in  an  effort 
to  make  me  good  that,  even  yet,  I  shy  away  from  their 
style  of  goodness.  The  wonder  is  that  I  have  any 
standing  at  all  in  polite  and  upright  society.  So  many 
folks  said  I  was  bad  and  naughty,  and  applied  so  many 
other  no  less  approbrious  epithets  to  me  that,  in  time, 
I  came  to  believe  them,  and  tried  somewhat  diligently 
to  live  up  to  the  reputation  they  gave  me.  I  recall 
that  one  of  my  aunts  came  in  one  day  and,  seeing  me 
out  in  the  yard  most  ingloriously  tousled,  asked  my 
good  mother:  "Is  that  your  child?"  Poor  mother! 
I  have  often  wondered  how  much  travail  of  spirit  it 
must  have  cost  her  to  acknowledge  me  as  her  very 
own.  One  thumb,  one  great  toe,  and  an  ankle  were 
decorated  with  greasy  rags,  and  I  was  far  from  being 
ornamental.  I  had  been  hulling  walnuts,  too,  and  my 
stained  hands  served  to  accentuate  the  human  scenery. 
This  same  aunt  had  three  boys  of  her  own,  later  on. 
and  a  more  disreputable-looking  crew  it  would  be  hard 
to  find.  I  confess  that  I  took  a  deal  of  grim  satisfac- 
tion in  their  dilapidated  ensemble,  just  for  my  aunt's 
benefit,  of  course.  They  were  fine,  wholesome, 
natural  boys  in  spite  of  their  parentage,  and  I  liked 
them  even  while  I  gloried  in  their  cuts,  bruises,  and 
dirt.  At  that  time  I  was  wearing  a  necktie  and  had 
my  shoes  polished  but,  even  so,  I  yearned  to  join  with 
them  in  their  debauch  of  sand,  mud,  and  general  in- 
Ill 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

difference  to  convention.  They  are  fine,  upstanding 
young  chaps  now,  and  of  course  their  mother  thinks 
that  her  scolding,  nagging,  and  baiting  made  them  so. 
They  know  better,  but  are  too  kind  and  considerate  to 
reveal  the  truth  to  their  mother. 

Even  yet  I  have  something  like  admiration  for  the 
ingenuity  of  my  elders  in  conjuring  up  spooks,  hob- 
goblins, and  bugaboos  with  which  to  scare  me  into 
submission.  I  conformed,  of  course,  but  I  never  gave 
them  a  high  grade  in  veracity.  I  yielded  simply  to 
gain  time,  for  I  knew  where  there  was  a  chipmunk  in 
a  hole,  and  was  eager  to  get  to  digging  him  out  just  as 
soon  as  my  apparent  submission  for  a  brief  time  had 
proved  my  complete  regeneration.  They  used  to  tell 
me  that  children  should  be  seen  but  not  heard,  and  I 
knew  they  wanted  to  do  the  talking.  I  often  wonder 
whether  their  notion  of  a  good  child  would  have  been 
satisfactorily  met  if  I  had  suddenly  become  paralyzed, 
or  ossified,  or  petrified.  In  either  of  these  cases  I 
could  have  been  seen  but  not  heard.  One  day,  not 
long  ago,  when  I  felt  at  peace  with  all  the  world  and 
was  comfortably  free  from  care,  a  small,  thumb- 
sucking  seven-year-old  asked:  "How  long  since  the 
world  was  born  ?  "  After  I  told  him  that  it  was  about 
four  thousand  years  he  worked  vigorously  at  his 
thumb  for  a  time,  and  then  said:  "That  isn't  very 
long."  Then  I  wished  I  had  said  four  millions,  so  as 
112 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW 

to  reduce  Him  to  silence,  for  one  doesn't  enjoy  being 
routed  and  put  to  confusion  by  a  seven-year-old. 
After  quite  a  silence  he  asked  again:  "What  was  there 
before  the  world  was  born?"  That  was  an  easy  one; 
so  I  said  in  a  tone  of  finality:  "There  wasn't  any- 
thing." Then  I  went  on  with  my  meditations,  think- 
ing I  had  used  the  soft  pedal  effectively.  Silence 
reigned  supreme  for  some  minutes,  and  then  was 
rudely  shattered.  His  thumb  flew  from  his  mouth, 
and  he  laughed  so  lustily  that  he  could  be  heard 
throughout  the  house.  When  his  laughter  had  spent 
itself  somewhat,  I  asked  meekly:  "What  are  you  laugh- 
ing at?"  His  answer  came  on  the  instant,  but  still 
punctuated  with  laughter:  "I  was  laughing  to  see  how 
funny  it  was  when  there  wasn't  anything."  No  won- 
der that  folks  want  children  to  be  seen  but  not  heard. 
And  some  folks  are  scandalized  because  a  chap  like 
that  doesn't  like  to  wash  his  neck  and  ears. 


113 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
PICNICS 

THE  code  of  table  etiquette  in  the  days  of  my  boy- 
hood, as  I  now  recall  it,  was  expressed  something 
like:  "Eat  what  is  set  before  you  and  ask  no  ques- 
tions." We  heeded  this  injunction  with  religious 
fidelity,  but  yearned  to  ask  why  they  didn't  set  more 
before  us.  About  the  only  time  that  a  real  boy  gets 
enough  to  eat  is  when  he  goes  to  a  picnic  and,  even  there 
and  then,  the  rounding  out  of  the  programme  is  con- 
nected with  clandestine  visits  to  the  baskets  after  the 
formal  ceremonies  have  been  concluded.  At  a  picnic 
there  is  no  such  expression  as  "from  soup  to  nuts," 
for  there  is  no  soup,  and  perhaps  no  nuts,  but  there 
is  everything  else  in  tantalizing  abundance.  If  I  find 
a  plate  of  deviled  eggs  near  me,  I  begin  with  deviled 
eggs;  or,  if  the  cold  tongue  is  nearer,  I  begin  with 
that.  In  this  way  I  reveal,  for  the  pleasure  of  the  host- 
esses, my  unrestricted  and  democratic  appetite.  Or, 
in  order  to  obviate  any  possible  embarrassment  dur- 
ing the  progress  of  the  chicken  toward  me,  I  may  take 
a  piece  of  pie  or  a  slice  of  cake,  thinking  that  they  may 
not  return  once  they  have  been  put  in  circulation. 
114 


PICNICS 

Certainly  I  take  jelly  when  it  passes  along,  as  well  as 
pickles,  olives,  and  cheese.  There  is  no  incongruity, 
at  such  a  time,  in  having  a  slice  of  baked  ham  and  a 
slice  of  angel-food  cake  on  one's  plate  or  in  one's  hands. 
They  harmonize  beautifully  both  hi  the  color  scheme 
and  in  the  gastronomic  scheme.  At  a  picnic  my  boy- 
hood training  reaches  its  full  fruition:  "Eat  what  is 
set  before  you  and  ask  no  questions."  These  things 
I  do. 

That's  a  good  rule  for  reading,  too,  just  to  read 
what  is  set  before  you  and  ask  no  questions.  I'm 
thinking  now  of  the  reader  member  of  my  dual  nature, 
not  the  student  member.  I  like  to  cater  somewhat 
to  both  these  members.  When  the  reader  member 
is  having  his  inning,  I  like  to  give  him  free  rein  and 
not  hamper  him  by  any  lock-step  or  stereotyped 
method  or  course.  I  like  to  lead  him  to  a  picnic  table 
and  dismiss  him  with  the  mere  statement  that  "Heaven 
helps  those  who  help  themselves,"  and  thus  leave  him 
to  his  own  devices.  If  Southey's,  "The  Curse  of 
Kehama,"  happens  to  be  nearest  his  plate,  he  will 
naturally  begin  with  that  as  I  did  with  the  deviled 
eggs.  Or  he  may  nibble  at  "The  House-Boat  on  the 
Styx"  while  some  one  is  passing  the  Shakespeare  along. 
He  may  like  Emerson,  and  ask  for  a  second  helping, 
and  that's  all  right,  too,  for  that's  a  nourishing  sort  of 
food.  Having  partaken  of  this  generously,  he  will 
115 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

enjoy  all  the  more  the  jelly  when  it  comes  along  in  the 
form  of  "Nonsense  Anthology."  The  more  I  think 
of  it  the  more  I  see  that  reading  is  very  like  a  picnic 
dinner.  It  is  all  good,  and  one  takes  the  food  which 
is  nearest  him,  whether  pie  or  pickles. 

When  any  one  asks  me  what  I  am  reading,  I  become 
much  embarrassed.  I  may  be  reading  a  catalogue  of 
books  at  the  time,  or  the  book  notices  in  some  maga- 
zine, but  such  reading  may  not  seem  orthodox  at  all 
to  the  one  who  asks  the  question.  My  reading  may 
be  too  desultory  or  too  personal  to  be  paraded  in  public. 
I  don't  make  it  a  practice  to  tell  all  the  neighbors  what 
I  ate  for  breakfast.  I  like  to  saunter  along  through 
the  book  just  as  I  ride  in  a  gondola  when  in  Venice. 
I'm  not  going  anywhere,  but  get  my  enjoyment  from 
merely  being  on  the  way.  I  pay  the  gondolier  and  then 
let  him  have  his  own  way  with  me.  So  with  the  book. 
I  pay  the  money  and  then  abandon  myself  to  it.  If 
it  can  make  me  laugh,  why,  well  and  good,  and  I'll 
laugh.  If  it  causes  me  to  shed  tears,  why,  let  the  tears 
flow.  They  may  do  me  good.  If  I  ever  become  con- 
scious of  the  number  of  the  page  of  the  book  I  am 
reading,  I  know  there  is  something  the  matter  with 
that  book  or  else  with  me.  If  I  ever  become  con- 
scious of  the  page  number  in  David  Grayson's 
"Adventures  in  Contentment,"  or  "The  Friendly 
Road,"  I  shall  certainly  consult  a  physician.  I  do 
116 


PICNICS 

become  semiconscious  at  times  that  I  am  approaching 
the  end  of  the  feast,  and  feel  regret  that  the  book  is 
not  larger. 

I  have  spasms  and  enjoy  them.  Sometimes,  I  have 
a  Dickens  spasm,  and  read  some  of  his  books  for  the 
n*  time.  I  have  frittered  away  much  time  in  my  life 
trying  to  discover  whether  a  book  is  worth  a  second 
reading.  If  it  isn't,  it  is  hardly  worth  a  first  reading. 
I  don't  get  tired  of  my  friend  Brown,  so  why  should 
I  put  Dickens  off  with  a  mere  society  call?  If  I  didn't 
enjoy  Brown  I'd  not  visit  him  so  frequently;  but, 
liking  him,  I  go  again  and  again.  So  with  Dickens, 
Mark  Twain,  and  Shakespeare.  The  story  goes  that 
a  second  Uncle  Remus  was  sitting  on  a  stump  in  the 
depths  of  a  forest  sawing  away  on  an  old  discordant 
violin.  A  man,  who  chanced  to  come  upon  him,  asked 
what  he  was  doing.  With  no  interruption  of  his 
musical  activities,  he  answered:  "Boss,  I'se  serenadin' 
m'  soul."  Book  or  violin,  'tis  all  the  same.  Uncle 
Remus  and  I  are  serenading  our  souls  and  the  exercise 
is  good  for  us. 

I  was  laid  by  with  typhoid  fever  for  a  few  weeks 
once,  and  the  doctor  came  at  eleven  o'clock  hi  the 
morning  and  at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  If  he 
happened  to  be  a  bit  late  I  grew  impatient,  and  my 
fever  increased.  He  discovered  this  fact,  and  was  no 
more  tardy.  He  was  reading  "John  Fiske"  at  the 
117 


REVERIES  OF  A   SCHOOLMASTER 

time,  and  Grant's  "Memoirs,"  and  at  each  visit  re- 
viewed for  me  what  he  had  read  since  the  previous  visit. 
He  must  have  been  glad  when  I  no  longer  needed  to 
take  my  history  by  proxy,  for  I  kept  him  up  to  the 
mark,  and  bullied  him  into  reciting  twice  a  day.  I 
don't  know  what  drugs  he  gave  me,  but  I  do  know 
that  "Fiske"  and  "Grant"  are  good  for  typhoid,  and 
heartily  commend  them  to  the  general  public.  I  am 
rather  glad  now  that  I  had  typhoid  fever. 

I  listen  with  amused  tolerance  to  people  who  grow 
voluble  on  the  weather  and  their  symptoms,  and  often 
wish  they  would  ask  me  to  prescribe  for  them.  I'd 
probably  tell  them  to  become  readers  of  William  J. 
Locke.  But,  perhaps,  their  symptoms  might  seem 
preferable  to  the  remedy.  A  neighbor  came  in  to 
borrow  a  book,  and  I  gave  her  "Les  Miserables,"  which 
she  returned  in  a  day  or  so,  saying  that  she  could  not 
read  it.  I  knew  that  I  had  overestimated  her,  and 
that  I  didn't  have  a  book  around  of  her  size.  I  had 
loaned  my  "Robin  Hood,"  "Rudder  Grange,"  "Uncle 
Remus,"  and  "Sonny"  to  the  children  round  about. 

I  like  to  browse  around  among  my  books,  and  am 
trying  to  have  my  boys  and  girls  acquire  the  same  habit. 
Reading  for  pure  enjoyment  isn't  a  formal  affair  any 
more  than  eating.  Sometimes  I  feel  in  the  mood  for  a 
grapefruit  for  breakfast,  sometimes  for  an  orange,  and 
sometimes  for  neither.  I'm  glad  not  to  board  at  a 
118 


PICNICS 

place  where  they  have  standardized  breakfasts  and 
reading.  If  I  feel  in  the  mood  for  an  orange  I  want  an 
orange,  even  if  my  neighbor  has  a  casaba  melon.  So, 
if  I  want  my  "  Middlemarch,"  I'm  quite  eager  for  that 
book,  and  am  quite  willing  for  my  neighbor  to  have 
his  "Henry  Esmond."  The  appetite  for  books  is 
variable,  the  same  as  for  food,  and  I'd  rather  consult 
my  appetite  than  my  neighbor  when  choosing  a  book 
as  a  companion  through  a  lazy  afternoon  beneath  the 
maple-tree.  I  refuse  to  try  to  supervise  the  reading 
of  my  pupils.  Why,  I  couldn't  supervise  their  eating. 
I'd  have  to  find  out  whether  the  boy  was  yearning  for 
porterhouse  steak  or  ice-cream,  first;  then  I  might  help 
him  make  a  selection.  The  best  I  can  do  is  to  have 
plenty  of  steak,  potatoes,  pie,  and  ice-cream  around, 
and  allow  him  to  help  himself. 


119 


MAKE-BELIEVE 

THE  text  may  be  found  in  "Over  Bemerton's," 
by  E.  V.  Lucas,  and  reads  as  follows:  "A  gentle 
hypocrisy  is  not  only  the  basis  but  the  salt  of  civilized 
life."  This  statement  startled  me  a  bit  at  first;  but 
when  I  got  to  thinking  of  my  experience  in  having  a 
photograph  of  myself  made  I  saw  that  Mr.  Lucas  has 
some  warrant  for  his  statement.  There  has  been  only 
one  Oliver  Cromwell  to  say:  "Paint  me  as  I  am."  The 
rest  of  us  humans  prefer  to  have  the  wart  omitted. 
If  my  photograph  is  true  to  life  I  don't  want  it.  I'm 
going  to  send  it  away,  and  I  don't  want  the  folks  who 
get  it  to  think  I  look  like  that.  If  I  were  a  woman  and 
could  wear  a  disguise  of  cosmetics  when  sitting  for  a 
picture  the  case  might  not  be  quite  so  bad.  The  subtle 
flattery  of  the  photograph  is  very  grateful  to  us  mortals 
whether  we  admit  it  or  not.  My  friend  Baxter  intro- 
duced me  once  as  a  man  who  is  not  two-faced,  and  went 
on  to  explain  that  if  I  had  had  two  faces  I'd  have 
brought  the  other  instead  of  this  one.  And  that's 
true.  I  expect  the  photographer  to  evoke  another  face 
for  me,  and  hence  my  generous  gift  of  money  to  him. 
120 


MAKE-BELIEVE 

I  like  that  chap  immensely.  He  takes  my  money, 
gives  me  another  face,  bows  me  out  with  the  grace  of 
a  finished  courtier,  and  never,  by  word  or  look,  reveals 
his  knowledge  of  my  hypocrisy. 

As  a  boy  I  had  a  full  suit  of  company  manners  which 
I  wore  only  when  guests  were  present,  and  so  was 
always  sorry  to  have  guests  come.  I  sat  back  on  the 
chair  instead  of  on  its  edge;  I  didn't  swing  my  legs 
unless  I  had  a  lapse  of  memory;  I  said,  "Yes,  ma'am," 
and,  "No,  ma'am,"  like  any  other  parrot,  just  as  I  did 
at  rehearsal;  and,  in  short,  I  was  a  most  exemplary 
child  save  for  occasional  reactions  to  unlooked-for 
situations.  The  folks  knew  I  was  posing,  and  were  on 
nettles  all  the  while  from  fear  of  a  breakdown;  the 
guests  knew  I  was  posing,  and  I  knew  I  was  posing. 
But  we  all  pretended  to  one  another  that  that  was  the 
regular  order  of  procedure  in  our  house.  So  we  had 
a  very  gratifying  concert  exercise  in  hypocrisy.  We 
said  our  prayers  that  night  just  as  usual. 

With  such  thorough  training  in  my  youth  it  is  not 
at  all  strange  that  I  now  consider  myself  rather  an 
adept  in  the  prevailing  social  usages.  At  a  musicale 
I  applaud  fit  to  blister  my  hands,  even  though  I  feel 
positively  pugnacious.  But  I  know  the  singer  has  an 
encore  prepared,  and  I  feel  that  it  would  be  ungracious 
to  disappoint  her.  Besides,  I  argue  with  myself  that 
I  can  stand  it  for  five  minutes  more  if  the  others  can. 
121 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

Professor  James,  I  think  it  is,  says  that  we  ought  to 
do  at  least  one  disagreeable  thing  each  day  as  an  aid 
in  the  development  of  character.  Being  rather  keen 
on  character  development,  I  decide  on  a  double  dose 
of  the  disagreeable  while  opportunity  favors.  Hence 
my  vigorous  applauding.  Then,  too,  I  realize  that  the 
time  and  place  are  not  opportune  for  an  expression  of 
my  honest  convictions;  so  I  choose  the  line  of  least 
resistance  and  well-nigh  blister  my  hands  to  emphasize 
my  hypocrisy. 

At  a  formal  dinner  I  have  been  known  to  sink  so 
low  into  the  depths  of  hypocrisy  as  to  eat  shrimp 
salad.  But  when  one  is  sitting  next  to  a  lady  who 
seems  a  confirmed  celibate,  and  who  seems  to  find 
nothing  better  than  to  become  voluble  on  the  subject 
of  her  distinguished  ancestors,  even  shrimp  salad  has 
its  uses.  Now,  under  normal  conditions  my  per- 
verted and  plebeian  taste  regards  shrimp  salad  as  a 
banality,  but  at  that  dinner  I  ate  it  with  apparent 
relish,  and  tried  not  to  make  a  wry  face.  But,  worst 
of  all,  I  complimented  the  hostess  upon  the  excellence 
of  the  dinner,  and  extolled  the  salad  particularly,  al- 
though we  both  knew  that  the  salad  was  a  failure,  and 
that  the  dinner  itself  convicted  the  cook  of  a  lack  of 
experience  or  else  of  a  superfluity  of  potations. 

When  the  refreshments  are  served  I  take  a  thimble- 
ful of  ice-cream  and  an  attenuated  wafer,  and  then 
122 


MAKE-BELIEVE 

solemnly  declare  to  the  maid  that  I  have  been  abun- 
dantly served.  In  the  hallowed  precincts  that  I  call 
my  den  I  could  absorb  nine  rations  such  as  they 
served  and  never  bat  an  eye.  And  yet,  in  making 
my  adieus  to  the  hostess,  I  thank  her  most  effusively 
for  a  delightful  evening,  refreshments  included,  and 
then  hurry  grumbling  home  to  get  something  to  eat. 
Such  are  some  of  the  manifestations  of  social  hypocrisy. 
These  all  pass  current  at  their  face  value,  and  yet  we 
all  know  that  nobody  is  deceived.  Still  it  is  great 
fun  to  play  make-believe,  and  the  world  would  have 
convulsions  if  we  did  not  indulge  in  these  pleasing  de- 
ceptions. In  the  clever  little  book  "Molly  Make- 
Believe"  the  girl  pretends  at  first  that  she  loves  the 
man,  and  later  on  comes  to  love  him  to  distraction, 
and  she  lived  happy  ever  after,  too.  When,  in  my 
fever,  I  would  ask  about  my  temperature,  the  nurse 
would  give  a  numeral  about  two  degrees  below  the 
real  record  to  encourage  me,  and  I  can't  think  that 
St.  Peter  will  bar  her  out  just  for  that. 

The  psychologists  give  mild  assent  to  the  theory 
that  a  physical  attitude  may  generate  an  emotion. 
If  I  assume  a  belligerent  attitude,  they  claim  that,  in 
time,  I  shall  feel  really  belligerent;  that  hi  a  loafing 
attitude  I  shall  presently  be  loafing;  and  that,  if  I 
assume  the  attitude  of  a  listener,  I  shall  soon  be  listen- 
ing most  intently.  This  seems  to  be  justified  by  the 
123 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

experiences  of  Edwin  Booth  on  the  stage.  He  could 
feign  fighting  for  a  time,  and  then  it  became  real  fight- 
ing, and  great  care  had  to  be  taken  to  avert  disastrous 
consequences  when  his  sword  fully  struck  its  gait.  I 
believe  the  psychologists  have  never  fully  agreed  on 
the  question  whether  the  man  is  running  from  the  bear 
because  he  is  scared  or  is  scared  because  he  is  running. 

I  dare  say  Mr.  Shakespeare  was  trying  to  express 
this  theory  when  he  said:  "Assume  a  virtue,  though 
you  have  it  not.''  That's  exactly  what  I'm  trying  to 
have  my  pupils  do  all  the  while.  I'm  trying  to  have 
them  wear  their  company  manners  continually,  so  that, 
in  good  tune,  they  will  become  their  regular  working 
garb.  I'm  glad  to  have  them  assume  the  attitudes  of 
diligence  and  politeness,  thinking  that  their  attitudes 
may  generate  the  corresponding  emotions.  It  is  a 
severe  strain  on  a  boy  at  times  to  seem  polite  when 
he  feels  like  hurling  missiles.  We  both  know  that 
his  politeness  is  mere  make-believe,  but  we  pretend 
not  to  know,  and  so  move  along  our  ways  of  hypocrisy 
hoping  that  good  may  come. 

There  is  a  telephone-girl  over  in  the  central  station, 
wherever  that  is,  who  certainly  is  beautiful  if  the  voice 
is  a  true  index.  Her  tones  are  dulcet,  and  her  voice 
is  so  mellow  and  well  modulated  that  I  visualize  her 
as  another  Venus.  I  suspect  that,  when  she  began  her 
work,  some  one  told  her  that  her  tenure  of  position 
124 


MAKE-BELIEVE 

depended  upon  the  quality  of  her  voice.  So,  I  imagine, 
she  assumed  a  tonal  quality  of  voice  that  was  really 
a  sublimated  hypocrisy,  and  persisted  in  this  until  now 
that  quality  of  voice  is  entirely  natural.  I  can't  think 
that  Shakespeare  had  her  specially  in  mind,  but,  if  I 
ever  have  the  good  fortune  to  meet  her,  I  shall  certainly 
ask  her  if  she  reads  Shakespeare.  Now  that  I  think  of 
it,  I  shall  try  this  treatment  on  my  own  voice,  for  it 
sorely  needs  treatment.  Possibly  I  ought  to  take  a 
course  of  training  at  the  telephone-station. 

I  am  now  thoroughly  persuaded  that  Mr.  Lucas 
gave  expression  to  a  great  principle  of  pedagogy  in 
what  he  said  about  hypocrisy,  and  I  shall  try  to  be 
diligent  in  applying  it.  If  I  can  get  my  boys  to  as- 
sume an  arithmetical  attitude,  they  may  come  to  have 
an  arithmetical  feeling,  and  that  would  give  me  great 
joy.  I  don't  care  to  have  them  express  their  honest 
feelings  either  about  me  or  the  work,  but  would  rather 
have  them  look  polite  and  interested,  even  if  it  is  hy- 
pocrisy. I'd  like  to  have  all  my  boys  and  girls  act  as 
if  they  consider  me  absolutely  fair,  just,  and  upright, 
as  well  as  the  most  kind,  courteous,  generous,  scholarly, 
skillful,  and  complaisant  schoolmaster  that  ever  lived, 
no  matter  what  they  really  think. 


125 


CHAPTER  XX 
BEHAVIOR 

IF  I  only  knew  how  to  teach  English,  I'd  have  far 
more  confidence  in  my  schoolmastering.  But  I 
don't  seem  to  get  on.  The  system  breaks  down  too 
often  to  suit  me.  Just  when  I  think  I  have  some  lad 
inoculated  with  elegant  English  through  the  process  of 
reading  from  some  classic,  he  says,  "might  of  came," 
and  I  become  obfuscated  again.  I  have  a  book  here 
in  which  I  read  that  it  is  the  business  of  the  teacher 
so  to  organize  the  activities  of  the  school  that  they  will 
function  in  behavior.  Well,  my  boys'  behavior  in  the 
use  of  English  indicates  that  I  haven't  organized  the 
activities  of  my  English  class  very  effectively.  I  seem 
to  be  more  of  a  success  in  a  cherry-orchard  than  in 
an  English  class.  My  cherries  are  large  and  round, 
a  joy  to  the  eye  and  delightful  to  the  taste.  The  fruit 
expert  tells  me  they  are  perfect,  and  so  I  feel  that  I 
organized  the  activities  in  that  orchard  efficiently.  In 
fact,  the  behavior  of  my  cherry-trees  is  most  grati- 
fying. But  when  I  hear  my  pupils  talk  or  read  their 
essays,  and  find  a  deal  of  imperfect  fruit  in  the  way  of 
solecisms  and  misspelled  words,  I  feel  inclined  to  dis- 
126 


BEHAVIOR 

credit  my  skill  in  organizing  the  activities  in  this 
human  orchard. 

I  think  my  trouble  is  (and  it  is  trouble),  that  I  pro- 
ceed upon  the  agreeable  assumption  that  my  pupils 
can  "catch"  English  as  they  do  the  measles  if  only 
they  are  exposed  to  it.  So  I  expose  them  to  the  ob- 
jective complement  and  the  compellative,  and  then 
stand  aghast  at  their  behavior  when  they  make  all 
the  mistakes  that  can  possibly  be  made  in  using  a 
given  number  of  words.  I  have  occasion  to  wonder 
whether  I  juggle  these  big  words  merely  because  I 
happen  to  see  them  in  a  book,  or  whether  I  am  trying 
to  be  impressive.  I  recall  how  often  I  have  felt  a 
thrill  of  pride  as  I  have  ladled  out  deliberative  sub- 
junctives, ethical  datives,  and  hysteron  proteron  to 
my  (supposedly)  admiring  Latin  pupils.  If  I  were  a 
soldier  I  should  want  to  wear  one  of  those  enormous 
three-story  military  hats  to  render  me  tall  and  im- 
pressive. I  have  no  desire  to  see  a  drum-major  minus 
his  plumage.  The  disillusionment  would  probably  be 
depressing.  Liking  to  wear  my  shako,  I  must  continue 
to  talk  of  objective  complements  instead  of  using 
simple  English. 

I  had  watched  men  make  a  hundred  barrels,  but 

when  I  tried  my  skill  I  didn't  produce  much  of  a 

barrel.    Then  I  knew  making  barrels  is  not  violently 

infectious.     But  I  suspect  that  it  is  quite  the  same 

127 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

as  English  in  this  respect.  My  behavior  in  that  cooper- 
shop,  for  a  time,  was  quite  destructive  of  materials, 
until  I  had  acquired  skill  by  much  practice. 

If  I  could  only  organize  the  activities  in  my  English 
class  so  that  they  would  function  in  such  behavior  as 
Lincoln's  "Letter  to  Mrs.  Bixby,"  I  should  feel  that  I 
might  continue  my  teaching  instead  of  devoting  all 
my  time  to  my  cherry-orchard.  Or,  if  I  could  see  that 
my  pupils  were  acquiring  the  habit  of  correct  English 
as  the  result  of  my  work,  I'd  give  myself  a  higher  grade 
as  a  schoolmaster.  My  neighbor  over  here  teaches 
agriculture,  and  one  of  his  boys  produced  one  hundred 
and  fifty  bushels  of  corn  on  an  acre  of  ground.  That's 
what  I  call  excellent  behavior,  and  that  schoolmaster 
certainly  knows  how  to  organize  the  activities  of  his 
class.  My  boy's  yield  of  thirty-seven  bushels,  mostly 
nubbins,  does  not  compare  favorably  with  the  yield  of 
his  boy,  and  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  reform,  or  else  wear 
a  mask.  Here  is  my  boy  saying  "might  of  came," 
and  his  boy  is  raising  a  hundred  and  fifty  bushels  of 
corn  per  acre. 

If  I  could  only  assemble  all  my  boys  and  girls  twenty 
years  hence  and  have  them  give  an  account  of  them- 
selves for  all  the  years  after  they  left  school,  I  could 
grade  them  with  greater  accuracy  than  I  can  possibly 
do  now.  Of  course,  I'd  simply  grade  them  on  behavior, 
and  if  I  could  muster  up  courage,  I  might  ask  them  to 
128 


BEHAVIOR 

grade  mine.  I  wonder  how  I'd  feel  if  I'd  find  among 
them  such  folks  as  Edison,  Burbank,  Goethals,  Clara 
Barton,  and  Frances  Willard.  My  neighbor  John 
says  the  most  humiliating  experience  that  a  man  can 
have  is  to  wear  a  pair  of  his  son's  trousers  that  have 
been  cut  down  to  fit  him.  I  might  have  some  such 
feelings  as  that  in  the  presence  of  pupils  who  had 
made  such  notable  achievements.  But,  should  they 
tell  me  that  these  achievements  were  due,  in  some  good 
measure,  to  the  work  of  the  school,  well,  that  would 
be  glory  enough  for  me.  One  of  my  boys  was  telling 
me  only  yesterday  of  a  bit  of  work  he  did  the  day  before 
in  the  way  of  revealing  a  process  in  chemistry  to  a 
firm  of  jewellers  and  hearing  the  superintendent  say 
that  that  bit  of  information  is  worth  a  thousand  dol- 
lars to  the  establishment.  If  he  keeps  on  doing  things 
like  that  I  shall  grade  his  behavior  one  of  these  days. 

I  suppose  Mr.  Goethals  must  have  learned  the  mul- 
tiplication table,  once  upon  a  time,  and  used  it,  too, 
in  constructing  the  Panama  Canal.  He  certainly 
made  it  effective,  and  the  activities  of  that  class  in 
arithmetic  certainly  did  function.  I  tell  my  boys  that 
this  multiplication  table  is  the  same  one  that  Mr. 
Goethals  has  been  using  all  the  while,  and  then  ask 
them  what  use  they  expect  to  make  of  it.  One  man 
made  use  of  this  table  in  tunnelling  the  Alps,  and 
another  in  building  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  and  it  seems 
129 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

to  be  good  for  many  more  bridges  and  tunnels  if  I  can 
only  organize  the  activities  aright. 

I  was  standing  in  front  of  St.  Marks,  there  in  Venice, 
one  morning,  regaling  myself  with  the  beauty  of  the 
festive  scene,  and  talking  to  a  friend,  when  four  of 
my  boys  came  strolling  up,  and  they  seemed  more  my 
boys  than  ever  before.  What  a  reunion  we  had !  The 
folks  all  about  us  didn't  understand  it  in  the  least, 
but  we  did,  and  that  was  enough.  I  forgot  my  coarse 
clothes,  my  well-nigh  empty  pockets,  my  inability  to 
buy  the  many  beautiful  things  that  kept  tantalizing 
me,  and  the  meagreness  of  my  salary.  These  were  all 
swallowed  up  in  the  joy  of  seeing  the  boys,  and  I 
wanted  to  proclaim  to  all  and  sundry:  "These  are 
my  jewels."  Those  boys  are  noble,  clean,  upstanding 
fellows,  and  no  schoolmaster  could  help  being  proud 
of  them.  Such  as  they  nestle  down  in  the  heart  of  the 
schoolmaster  and  cause  him  to  know  that  life  is  good. 

I  was  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  share  my  joy  with  my 
friend  who  stood  near,  but  that  could  not  be.  I  might 
have  used  words  to  him,  but  he  would  not  have  under- 
stood. He  had  never  yearned  over  those  fellows  and 
watched  them,  day  by  day,  hoping  that  they  might 
grow  up  to  be  an  honor  to  their  school.  He  had  never 
had  the  experience  of  watching  from  the  schoolhouse 
window,  fervently  wishing  that  no  harm  might  come 
to  them,  and  that  no  shadows  might  come  over  their 
130 


BEHAVIOR 

lives.  He  had  never  known  the  joy  of  sitting  up  far 
into  the  night  to  prepare  for  the  coming  of  those  boys 
the  next  day.  He  had  never  seen  their  eyes  sparkle 
in  the  classroom  when,  for  them,  truth  became  il- 
lumined. Of  course,  he  stood  aloof,  for  he  couldn't 
know.  Only  the  schoolmaster  can  ever  know  how 
those  four  boys  became  the  focus  of  all  that  wondrous 
beauty  on  that  splendid  morning.  If  I  had  had  my 
grade-book  along  I  would  have  recorded  then-  grades 
in  behavior,  for  as  I  looked  upon  those  glorious  chaps 
and  heard  them  recount  their  experiences  I  had  a 
feeling  of  exaltation,  knowing  that  the  activities  of  our 
school  had  functioned  in  right  behavior. 


131 


CHAPTER  XXI 
FOREFINGERS 

THIS  left  forefinger  of  mine  is  certainly  a  curi- 
osity. It  looks  like  a  miniature  totem-pole, 
and  I  wish  I  had  before  me  its  life  history.  I'd  like 
to  know  just  how  all  these  seventeen  scars  were  ac- 
quired. It  seems  to  have  come  in  contact  with  about 
all  sorts  and  sizes  of  cutlery.  If  only  teachers  or  par- 
ents had  been  wise  enough  to  make  a  record  of  all 
my  bloodletting  mishaps,  with  occasions,  causes,  and 
effects,  that  record  would  afford  a  fruitful  study  for 
students  of  education.  The  pity  of  it  is  that  we  take 
no  account  of  such  matters  as  phases  or  factors  of  edu- 
cation. We  keep  saying  that  experience  is  the  best 
teacher,  and  then  ignore  this  eloquent  forefinger.  I 
call  that  criminal  neglect  arising  from  crass  ignorance. 
Why,  these  scars  that  adorn  many  parts  of  my  body 
are  the  foot-prints  of  evolution,  if,  indeed,  evolution 
makes  tracks.  The  scars  on  the  faces  of  those  students 
at  Heidelberg  are  accounted  badges  of  honor,  but  they 
cannot  compare  with  the  big  scar  on  my  left  knee  that 
came  to  me  as  the  free  gift  of  a  corn-knife.  Those 
students  wanted  their  scars  to  take  home  to  show  their 
132 


FOREFINGERS 

mothers.  I  didn't  want  mine,  and  made  every  effort 
to  conceal  it,  as  well  as  the  hole  in  my  trousers.  I  got 
my  scar  as  a  warning.  I  profited  by  it,  too,  for  never 
were  there  two  cuts  in  exactly  the  same  place.  In  fact, 
they  were  widely,  if  not  wisely,  distributed.  They  arc 
the  indices  of  the  soaring  sense  of  my  youthful  audacity. 
And  yet  neither  parents  nor  teachers  ever  graded  my 
scars. 

I  recall  quite  distinctly  that,  at  one  tune,  I  pro- 
claimed boldly  over  one  entire  page  of  a  copy-book, 
that  knowledge  is  power,  and  became  so  enthusiastic 
in  these  numerous  proclamations  that  I  wrote  on  the 
bias,  and  zigzagged  over  the  page  with  fine  abandon. 
But  no  teacher  ever  even  hinted  to  me  that  the  knowl- 
edge I  acquired  from  my  contest  with  a  nest  of  bellig- 
erent bumblebees  had  the  slightest  connection  with 
power.  When  I  groped  my  way  home  with  both  eyes 
swollen  shut  I  was  never  lionized.  Indeed,  no !  Any- 
thing but  that !  I  couldn't  milk  the  cows  that  evening, 
and  couldn't  study  my  lesson,  and  therefore,  my  newly 
acquired  knowledge  was  called  weakness  instead  of 
power.  They  did  not  seem  to  realize  that  my  swollen 
face  was  prominent  in  the  scheme  of  education,  nor 
that  bumblebees  and  yellow- jackets  may  be  a  means 
of  grace.  They  wanted  me  to  be  solving  problems  in 
common  (sometimes  called  vulgar)  fractions.  I  don't 
fight  bumblebees  any  more,  which  proves  that  my 
133 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

knowledge  generated  power.  The  emotions  of  my  boy- 
hood presented  a  scene  of  grand  disorder,  and  those 
bumblebees  helped  to  organize  them,  and  to  clarify  and 
define  my  sense  of  values.  I  can  philosophize  about  a 
bumblebee  far  more  judicially  now  than  I  could  when 
my  eyes  were  swollen  shut. 

I  went  to  the  town  to  attend  a  circus  one  day,  and 
concluded  I'd  celebrate  the  day  with  eclat  by  getting 
my  hair  cut.  At  the  conclusion  of  this  ceremony  the 
tonsorial  Beau  Brummel,  in  the  most  seductive  tones, 
suggested  a  shampoo.  I  just  couldn't  resist  his  bland- 
ishments, and  so  consented.  Then  he  suggested  tonic, 
and  grew  quite  eloquent  in  recounting  the  benefits  to 
the  scalp,  and  I  took  tonic.  I  felt  quite  a  fellow,  till 
I  came  to  pay  the  bill,  and  then  discovered  that  I  had 
but  fifteen  cents  left  from  all  my  wealth.  That,  of 
course,  was  not  sufficient  for  a  ticket  to  the  circus,  so 
I  bought  a  bag  of  peanuts  and  walked  home,  five  miles, 
meditating,  the  while,  upon  the  problem  of  life.  My 
scalp  was  all  right,  but  just  under  that  scalp  was  a 
seething,  soundless  hubbub.  I  learned  things  that  day 
that  are  not  set  down  in  the  books,  even  if  I  did  get 
myself  laughed  at.  When  I  get  to  giving  school  credits 
for  home  work  I  shall  certainly  excuse  the  boy  who 
has  had  such  an  experience  as  that  from  solving  at 
least  four  problems  in  vulgar  fractions,  and  I  shall  in- 
clude that  experience  in  my  definition  of  education,  too. 
134 


FOREFINGERS 

I  have  tried  to  back-track  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar, 
now  and  then,  and  have  found  it  good  fun.  Once  I 
started  with  his  expression,  "the  whole  sky  overhead 
and  the  whole  earth  underneath,"  and  tried  to  get 
back  to  where  that  started.  He  must  have  been  lying 
on  his  back  on  some  grass-plot,  right  in  the  centre  of 
everything,  with  that  whole  half-sphere  of  sky  luring 
his  spirit  out  toward  the  infinite,  with  a  pillow  that 
was  eight  thousand  miles  thick.  If  I  had  been  his 
teacher  I  might  have  called  him  lazy  and  shiftless  as 
he  lay  there,  because  he  was  not  finding  how  to  place 
a  decimal  point.  I'm  glad,  on  the  whole,  that  I  was 
not  his  teacher,  for  I'd  have  twinges  of  conscience 
every  time  I  read  one  of  his  big  thoughts.  I'd  feel  that, 
while  he  was  lying  there  growing  big,  I  was  doing  my 
best  to  make  hirn  little.  When  I  was  lying  on  my  back 
there  in  the  Pantheon  in  Rome,  looking  up  through 
that  wide  opening,  and  watching  a  moving-picture  show 
that  has  no  rival,  the  fleecy  clouds  in  their  ever-changing 
forms  against  that  blue  background  of  matchless  Ital- 
ian sky,  those  gendarmes  debated  the  question  of  ar- 
resting me  for  disorderly  conduct.  My  conduct  was 
disorderly  because  they  couldn't  understand  it.  But, 
if  Raphael  could  have  risen  from  his  tomb  only  a  few 
yards  away,  he  would  have  told  those  fellows  not  to 
disturb  me  while  I  was  being  so  liberally  educated. 

Then,  that  other  tune,  when  my  friend  Reuben  and 
135 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

I  stood  on  the  very  prow  of  the  ship  when  the  sea  was 
rolling  high,  swinging  us  up  into  the  heights,  and_then 
down  into  the  depths,  with  the  roar  drowning  out  all 
possibility  of  talk — well,  somehow,  I  thought  of  that 
copy-book  back  yonder  with  its  message  that  "Knowl- 
edge is  power."  And  I  never  think  of  power  without 
recalling  that  experience  as  I  watched  that  battle  royal 
between  the  power  of  the  sea  and  the  power  of  the  ship 
that  could  withstand  the  angry  buffeting  of  the  waves, 
and  laugh  in  glee  as  it  rode  them  down.  I  know  that 
six  tunes  nine  are  fifty-four,  but  I  confess  that  I  forgot 
this  fact  out  there  on  the  prow  of  that  ship.  Some 
folks  might  say  that  Reuben  and  I  were  wasting  our 
time,  but  I  can't  think  so.  I  like,  even  now,  to  stand 
out  in  the  clear  during  a  thunder-storm.  I  want  the 
head  uncovered,  too,  that  the  wind  may  toss  my  hair 
about  while  I  look  the  lightning-flashes  straight  in 
the  eye  and  stand  erect  and  unafraid  as  the  thunder 
crashes  and  rolls  and  reverberates  about  me.  I  like 
to  watch  the  trees  swaying  to  and  fro,  keeping  time  to 
the  majestic  rhythm  of  the  elements.  To  me  such  an 
experience  is  what  my  neighbor  John  calls  "growing 
weather,"  and  at  such  a  time  the  bigness  of  the  affair 
causes  me  to  forget  for  the  time  that  there  are  such 
things  as  double  datives. 

One  tune  I  spent  the  greater  part  of  a  forenoon 
watching  logs  go  over  a  dam.    It  seems  a  simple  thing 
136 


FOREFINGERS 

to  tell,  and  hardly  worth  the  telling,  but  it  was  a  great 
morning  in  actual  experience.  In  time  those  huge 
logs  became  things  of  life,  and  when  they  arose  from 
their  mighty  plunge  into  the  watery  deeps  they  seemed 
to  shake  themselves  free  and  laugh  in  their  freedom. 
And  there  were  battles,  too.  They  struggled  and 
fought  and  rode  over  one  another,  and  their  mighty 
collisions  produced  a  very  thunder  of  sound.  I  tried 
to  read  the  book  which  I  had  with  me,  but  could  not. 
In  the  presence  of  such  a  scene  one  cannot  read  a 
book  unless  it  is  one  of  Victor  Hugo's.  That  copy- 
book looms  up  again  as  I  think  of  those  logs,  and  I 
wonder  whether  knowledge  is  power,  and  whether  ex- 
perience is  the  best  teacher.  But,  dear  me !  Here  I've 
been  frittering  away  all  this  good  time,  and  these  papers 
not  graded  yet ! 


137 


CHAPTER  XXII 

STORY-TELLING 

> 

TV  yTY  boys  like  to  have  me  tell  them  stories,  and,  if 
•*-  •*•  the  stories  are  true  ones,  they  like  them  all  the 
better.  So  I  sometimes  become  reminiscent  when  they 
gather  about  me  and  let  them  lead  me  along  as  if  I 
couldn't  help  myself  when  they  are  so  interested.  In 
this  way  I  become  one  of  them.  I  like  to  whittle  a 
nice  pine  stick  while  I  talk,  for  then  the  talk  seems  in- 
cidental to  the  whittling  and  so  takes  hold  of  them  all 
the  more.  In  the  midst  of  the  talking  a  boy  will 
sometimes  slip  into  my  hand  a  fresh  stick,  when  I  have 
about  exhausted  the  whittling  resources  of  the  other. 
That's  about  the  finest  encore  I  have  ever  received. 
A  boy  knows  how  to  pay  a  compliment  in  a  delicate 
way  when  the  mood  for  compliments  is  on  him,  and 
if  that  mood  of  his  is  handled  with  equal  delicacy 
great  things  may  be  accomplished. 

Well,  the  other  day  as  I  whittled  the  inevitable 
pine  stick  I  let  them  lure  from  me  the  story  of  Sant. 
Now,  Sant  was  my  seatmate  in  the  village  school  back 
yonder,  and  I  now  know  that  I  loved  him  whole- 
heartedly. I  didn't  know  this  at  the  time,  for  I  took 
138 


STORY-TELLING 

him  as  a  matter  of  course,  just  as  I  did  my  right  hand. 
His  name  was  Sanford,  but  boys  don't  call  one  another 
by  their  right  names.  They  soon  find  affectionate 
nicknames.  I  have  quite  a  collection  of  these  nick- 
names myself,  but  have  only  a  hazy  notion  of  how  or 
where  they  were  acquired.  When  some  one  calls  me 
by  one  of  these  names,  I  can  readily  locate  him  in  time 
and  place,  for  I  well  know  that  he  must  belong  in  a 
certain  group  or  that  name  would  not  come  to  his 
lips.  These  nicknames  that  we  all  have  are  really 
historical.  Well,  we  called  him  Sant,  and  that  name 
conjures  up  before  me  one  of  the  most  wholesome 
boys  I  have  ever  known.  He  was  brimful  of  fun.  A 
heartier,  more  sincere  laugh  a  boy  never  had,  and  my 
affection  for  him  was  as  natural  as  my  breathing.  He 
knew  I  liked  him,  though  I  never  told  him  so.  Had  I 
told  him,  the  charm  would  have  been  broken. 

In  those  days  spelling  was  one  of  the  high  lights  of 
school  work,  and  we  were  incited  to  excellence  in  this 
branch  of  learning  by  head  tickets,  which  were  a 
promise  of  still  greater  honor,  in  the  form  of  a  prize, 
to  the  winner.  The  one  who  stood  at  the  head  of  the 
class  at  the  close  of  the  lesson  received  a  ticket,  and  the 
holder  of  the  greatest  number  of  these  tickets  at  the 
end  of  the  school  year  bore  home  in  triumph  the  much- 
coveted  prize  hi  the  shape  of  a  book  as  a  visible  token 
of  superiority.  I  wanted  that  prize,  and  worked  for 
139 


REVERIES   OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

it.  Tickets  were  accumulating  in  my  little  box  with 
exhilarating  regularity,  and  I  was  nobly  upholding  the 
family  name  when  I  was  stricken  with  pneumonia, 
and  my  victorious  career  had  a  rude  check.  My  near- 
est competitor  was  Sam,  who  almost  exulted  in  my 
illness  because  of  the  opportunity  it  afforded  him  for 
a  rich  harvest  of  head  tickets.  In  the  exuberance  of 
his  joy  he  made  some  remark  to  this  effect,  which  Sant 
overheard.  Up  to  this  time  Sant  had  taken  no  in- 
terest in  the  contests  in  spelling,  but  Sam's  remark 
galvanized  him  into  vigorous  life,  and  spelling  became 
his  overmastering  passion.  Indeed,  he  became  the 
wonder  of  the  school,  and  in  consequence  poor  Sam's 
anticipations  were  not  realized.  Day  after  day  Sant 
caught  the  word  that  Sam  missed,  and  thus  added  an- 
other ticket  to  his  collection.  So  it  went  until  I  took 
my  place  again,  and  then  Sant  lapsed  back  into  his 
indifference,  leaving  me  to  look  after  Sam  myself. 
When  I  tried  to  face  him  down  with  circumstantial 
evidence  he  seemed  pained  to  think  that  I  could  ever 
consider  him  capable  of  such  designing.  The  merry 
twinkle  in  his  eye  was  the  only  confession  he  ever  made. 
Small  wonder  that  I  loved  Sant.  If  I  were  writing  a 
testimonial  for  myself  I  should  say  that  it  was  much 
to  my  credit  that  I  loved  a  boy  like  that. 

As  a  boy  my  risibilities  were  easily  excited,  and  I'm 
glad  that,  even  yet,  I  have  not  entirely  overcome  that 
140 


STORY-TELLING 

weakness.  If  I  couldn't  have  a  big  laugh,  now  and 
then,  I'd  feel  that  I  ought  to  consult  a  physician.  My 
boys  and  girls  and  I  often  laugh  together,  but  never 
at  one  another.  Sant  had  a  deal  of  fun  with  my  pro- 
pensity to  laugh.  When  we  were  conning  our  geog- 
raphy lesson,  he  would  make  puns  upon  such  names 
as  Chattahoochee  and  Appalachicola,  and  I  would 
promptly  explode.  Then,  enter  the  teacher.  But  I 
drop  the  mantle  of  charity  over  the  next  scene,  for  his 
school-teaching  was  altogether  personal,  and  not  peda- 
gogical. He  didn't  know  that  puns  and  laughter  were 
the  reactions  on  the  part  of  us  boys  that  caused  us  to 
know  the  facts  of  the  book.  But  he  wanted  us  to 
learn  those  facts  in  his  way,  and  not  hi  our  own.  Poor 
fellow!  Requiescat  in  pace,  if  he  can. 

Sant  was  the  first  one  of  our  crowd  to  go  to  college, 
and  we  were  all  proud  of  him,  and  predicted  great 
things  for  him.  We  all  knew  he  was  brilliant  and  felt 
certain  that  the  great  ones  in  the  college  would  soon 
find  it  out.  And  they  did;  for  ever  and  anon  some 
news  would  filter  through  to  us  that  Sant  was  batten- 
ing upon  Latin,  Greek,  mathematics,  science,  and  his- 
tory. Of  course,  we  gave  all  the  credit  to  our  little 
school,  and  seemed  to  forget  that  the  Lord  may  have 
had  something  to  do  with  it.  When  we  proved  by 
Sant's  achievements  that  our  school  was  ne  plus  ultra, 
I  noticed  that  the  irascible  teacher  joined  heartily  in 
141 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

the  chorus.  I  intend  to  get  all  the  glory  I  can  from 
the  achievements  of  my  pupils,  but  I  do  hope  that 
they  may  not  be  my  sole  dependence  at  the  distribu- 
tion of  glory.  Yes,  Sant  graduated,  and  his  name  was 
written  high  upon  the  scroll.  But  he  could  not  de- 
liver his  oration,  for  he  was  sick,  and  a  friend  read  it 
for  him.  And  when  he  arose  to  receive  his  diploma 
he  had  to  stand  on  crutches.  They  took  him  home  in 
a  carriage,  and  within  a  week  he  was  dead.  The  fires 
of  genius  had  burned  brightly  for  a  time  and  then  went 
out  in  darkness,  because  bis  father  and  mother  were 
first  cousins. 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  story,  the  boys  were  silent 
for  a  long  tune,  and  I  knew  the  story  was  having  its 
effect.  Then  there  was  a  slight  movement,  and  one 
of  them  put  into  my  hand  another  pine  stick.  I 
whittled  in  silence  for  a  tune,  and  then  told  them  of  a 
woman  I  know  who  is  well-known  and  highly  esteemed 
in  more  than  one  State  because  of  her  distinctive 
achievements.  One  day  I  saw  her  going  along  the 
street  leading  by  the  hand  a  little  four-year-old  boy. 
He  was  the  picture  of  health,  and  rollicked  along  as 
only  such  a  healthy  little  chap  can.  He  was  eager  to 
see  all  the  things  that  were  displayed  in  the  windows, 
but  to  me  he  and  the  proud  mother  were  the  finest 
show  on  the  street.  She  beamed  upon  him  like  an- 
other Madonna,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  Master 
142 


STORY-TELLING 

must  have  been  looking  at  some  such  glorious  child  as 
that  when  he  said:  "Suffer  the  little  children  to  come 
unto  me." 

A  few  weeks  later  I  was  riding  on  the  train  with  that 
mother,  and  she  was  telling  me  that  the  little  fellow 
had  been  ill,  and  told  how  anxious  she  had  been 
through  several  days  and  nights  because  the  physicians 
could  not  discover  the  cause  of  his  illness.  Then  she 
told  how  happy  she  was  that  he  had  about  recovered, 
and  how  bright  he  seemed  when  she  kissed  him  good- 
by  that  morning.  I  saw  her  several  times  that  week 
and  at  each  meeting  she  gave  me  good  news  of  the 
little  boy  at  home. 

Inside  of  another  month  that  noble  little  fellow  was 
dead.  Apparently  he  was  his  own  healthy,  happy 
little  self,  and  then  was  stricken  as  he  had  been  before. 
The  pastor  of  the  church  of  which  the  parents  are 
members  told  me  of  the  death  scene.  It  occurred  at 
about  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the  mother  was 
worn  and  haggard  from  anxiety  and  days  of  watching. 
The  members  of  the  family,  the  physician,  and  the 
pastor  were  standing  around  the  bed,  but  the  mother 
was  on  her  knees  close  beside  the  little  one,  who  was 
writhing  in  the  most  awful  convulsions.  Then  the 
stricken  mother  looked  straight  into  heaven  and  made 
a  personal  appeal  to  God  to  come  and  relieve  the  little 
fellow's  sufferings.  Again  and  again  she  prayed:  "Oh, 
143 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

God,  do  come  and  take  my  little  boy."  And  the 
Angel  of  Death,  in  answer  to  that  prayer,  came  in  and 
touched  the  baby,  and  he  was  still. 

The  mother  of  that  child  may  or  may  not  know  that 
the  grandfather  of  that  child  came  into  that  room  that 
night,  though  he  had  been  long  in  his  grave,  and  mur- 
dered her  baby — murdered  him  with  tainted  blood. 
That  grandfather 'had  not  lived  a  clean  life,  and  so 
broke  a  mother's  heart  and  forced  her  in  agony  to 
pray  for  the  death  of  her  own  child. 

When  I  had  finished  I  walked  quietly  away,  leaving 
the  boys  to  their  own  thoughts,  and  as  I  walked  I 
breathed  the  wish  that  my  boys  may  live  such  clean, 
wholesome,  upright,  temperate  lives  that  no  child  or 
grandchild  may  ever  have  occasion  to  reproach  them, 
or  point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  them,  and  that  no  mother 
may  ever  pray  for  death  to  come  to  her  baby  because 
of  a  taint  in  their  blood. 


144 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
GRANDMOTHER 

"JiyTY  grandmother  was  about  the  nicest  grand- 
•*-  •*•  mother  that  a  boy  ever  had,  and  in  memory 
of  her,  I  am  quite  partial  to  all  the  grandmothers.  I 
like  Whistler's  portrait  of  his  mother  there  in  the 
Luxembourg — the  serene  face,  the  cap  and  strings,  and 
the  folded  hands — because  it  takes  me  back  to  the 
days  and  to  the  presence  of  my  grandmother.  She 
got  into  my  heart  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  she  is  there 
yet;  and  there  she  will  stay.  The  bread  and  butter 
that  she  somehow  contrived  to  get  to  us  boys  between 
meals  made  us  feel  that  she  could  read  our  minds.  I 
attended  a  banquet  the  other  night,  but  they  had  no 
such  bread  and  butter  as  we  boys  had  there  in  the 
shade  of  that  apple-tree.  It  was  real  bread  and  real 
butter,  and  the  appetite  was  real,  too,  and  that  helped 
to  invest  grandmother  with  a  halo.  Sometimes  she 
would  add  jelly,  and  that  caused  our  cup  of  joy  to  run 
over.  She  just  could  not  bear  a  hungry  look  on  the 
face  of  a  boy,  and  when  such  a  look  appeared  she  ex- 
orcised it  in  the  way  that  a  boy  likes.  What  I  liked 
about  her  was  that  she  never  attached  any  conditions 
145 


REVERIES   OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

to  her  bread  and  butter — no,  not  even  when  she  added 
jelly,  but  her  gifts  were  as  free  as  salvation.  The 
more  I  think  of  the  matter,  the  more  I  am  convinced 
that  her  gifts  were  salvation,  for  I  know,  by  experi- 
ence, that  a  hungry  boy  is  never  a  good  boy,  at  least, 
not  to  excess. 

Whatever  the  vicissitudes  of  life  might  be  to  me,  I 
knew  that  I  had  a  city  of  refuge  beside  grandmother's 
big  armchair,  and  when  trouble  came  I  instinctively 
sought  that  haven,  often  with  rare  celerity.  In  that 
hallowed  place  there  could  be  no  hunger,  nor  thirst, 
nor  persecution.  In  that  place  there  was  peace  and 
plenty,  whatever  there  might  be  elsewhere.  I  often 
used  to  wonder  how  she  could  know  a  boy  so  well.  I 
would  be  aching  to  go  over  to  play  with  Tom,  and  the 
first  thing  I  knew  grandmother  was  sending  me  over 
there  on  some  errand,  telling  me  there  was  no  special 
hurry  about  coming  back.  My  father  might  set  his 
foot  down  upon  some  plan  of  mine  ever  so  firmly,  but 
grandmother  had  only  to  smile  at  him  and  he  was  re- 
duced to  a  degree  of  limpness  that  contributed  to  my 
escape.  I  have  often  wondered  whether  that  smile  on 
the  face  of  grandmother  did  not  remind  him  of  some 
of  his  own  boyish  pranks. 

We  boys  knew,  somehow,  what  she  expected  of  us, 
and  her  expectation  was  the  measuring  rod  with  which 
we  tested  our  conduct.  Boy-like,  we  often  wandered 
146 


GRANDMOTHER 

away  into  a  far  country,  but  when  we  returned,  she 
had  the  fatted  calf  ready  for  us,  with  never  a  question 
as  to  our  travels  abroad.  In  that  way  foreign  travel 
lost  something  of  its  glamour,  and  the  home  life  made 
a  stronger  appeal.  She  made  her  own  bill  of  fare  so 
appetizing  that  we  lost  all  our  relish  for  husks  and  the 
table  companions  connected  with  them.  She  never 
asked  how  or  where  we  acquired  the  cherry-stains  on 
our  shirts,  but  we  knew  that  she  recognized  cherry- 
stains  when  she  saw  them.  The  next  day  our  shirts 
were  innocent  of  foreign  cherry-stains,  and  we  experi- 
enced a  feeling  of  righteousness.  She  made  us  feel 
that  we  were  equal  partners  with  her  in  the  enterprise 
of  life,  and  that  hoeing  the  garden  and  eating  the 
cookies  were  our  part  of  the  compact. 

When  we  went  to  stay  with  her  for  a  week  or  two 
we  carried  with  us  a  book  or  so  of  the  lurid  sort,  but 
returned  home  leaving  them  behind,  generally  in  the 
form  of  ashes.  She  found  the  book,  of  course,  beneath 
the  pillow,  and  replaced  it  when  she  made  the  bed, 
but  never  mentioned  the  matter  to  us.  Then,  in  the 
afternoon,  while  we  munched  cookies  she  would  read 
to  us  from  some  book  that  made  our  own  book  seem 
tame  and  unprofitable.  She  never  completed  the 
story,  however,  but  left  the  book  on  the  table  where 
we  could  find  it  easily.  No  need  to  tell  that  we  fin- 
ished the  story,  without  help,  in  the  evening,  and  the 
147 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

next  day  cremated  the  other  book,  having  found 
something  more  to  our  liking.  One  evening,  as  we 
sat  together,  she  said  she  wished  she  knew  the  name 
of  Jephthah's  daughter,  and  then  went  on  with  her 
knitting  as  if  she  had  forgotten  her  wish.  At  that 
age  we  boys  were  not  specially  interested  in  daughters, 
no  matter  whose  they  were;  but  that  challenge  to  our 
curiosity  was  too  much  for  us,  and  before  we  went  to 
bed  we  knew  all  that  is  known  of  that  fine  girl. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  our  intimate,  personal 
knowledge  of  Bible  characters — Ruth,  Esther,  David, 
and  the  rest;  but  grandmother  made  us  feel  that  we 
had  known  about  them  all  along.  I  know,  even  yet, 
just  how  tall  Ruth  was,  and  what  was  the  color  of  her 
eyes  and  hair;  and  Esther  is  the  standard  by  which 
I  measure  all  the  queens  of  earth,  whether  they  wear 
crowns  or  not. 

One  day  when  we  went  over  to  play  with  Tom  we 
saw  a  peacock  for  the  first  time,  and  at  supper  became 
enthusiastic  over  the  discovery.  In  the  midst  of  our 
rhapsodizing  grandmother  asked  us  if  we  knew  how 
those  beautiful  spots  came  to  be  in  the  feathers  of  the 
peacock.  We  confessed  our  ignorance,  and  like  Ajax, 
prayed  for  light.  But  we  soon  became  aware  that  our 
prayer  would  not  be  answered  until  after  the  supper 
dishes  had  been  washed.  Our  alacrity  in  proffering  our 
services  is  conclusive  evidence  that  grandmother  knew 
148 


GRANDMOTHER 

about  motivation  whether  she  knew  the  word  or  not. 
We  suggested  the  omission  of  the  skillets  and  pans  for 
that  night  only,  but  the  suggestion  fell  upon  barren  soil, 
and  the  regular  order  of  business  was  strictly  observed. 
Then  came  the  story,  and  the  narrator  made  the 
characters  seem  lifelike  to  us  as  they  passed  in  re- 
view. There  were  Jupiter  and  Juno;  there  were 
Argus  with  his  hundred  eyes,  the  beautiful  heifer  that 
was  lo,  and  the  crafty  Mercury.  In  rapt  attention 
we  listened  until  those  eyes  of  Argus  were  transferred 
to  the  feathers  of  the  peacock.  If  Mercury's  story 
of  his  musical  pipe  closed  the  eyes  of  Argus,  grand- 
mother's story  opened  ours  wide,  and  we  clamored  for 
another,  as  boys  will  do.  Nor  did  we  ask  in  vain,  and 
we  were  soon  learning  of  the  Flying  Mercury,  and  how 
light  and  airy  Mercury  was,  seeing  that  an  infant's 
breath  could  support  him.  After  telling  of  the  wild 
ride  of  Phaeton  and  his  overthrow,  she  quoted  from 
John  G.  Saxe: 

"Don't  set  it  down  in  your  table  of  forces 
That  any  one  man  equals  any  four  horses. 
Don't  swear  by  the  Styx! 
It  is  one  of  old  Nick's 
Diabolical  tricks 

To  get  people  into  a  regular  'fix,' 
And  hold  'em  there  as  fast  as  bricks!" 

Be  it  said  to  our  credit  that  after  such  an  evening 
dish-washing  was  no  longer  a  task,  but  rather  a  de- 
149 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

lightful  prelude  to  another  mythological  feast.  We 
wandered  with  Ulysses  and  shuddered  at  Polyphemus; 
we  went  in  quest  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  and  watched 
the  sack  of  Troy;  we  came  to  know  Orpheus  and  Eury- 
dice  and  Pyramus  and  Thisbe;  and  we  sowed  dragon's 
teeth  and  saw  armed  men  spring  up  before  us.  Since 
those  glorious  evenings  with  grandmother  the  classic 
myths  have  been  among  my  keenest  delights.  I  read 
again  and  again  Lowell's  extravaganza  upon  the  story 
of  Daphne,  and  can  hear  grandmother's  laugh  over 
his  delicious  puns.  I  can  hear  her  voice  as  she  reads 
Shelley's  musical  Arethusa,  and  then  turns  to  his 
Skylark  to  compare  their  musical  qualities.  I  feel 
downright  sorry  for  the  boy  who  has  no  such  grand- 
mother to  teach  him  these  poems,  but  not  more  sorry 
than  I  do  for  those  boys  who  took  that  Diamond  Dick 
book  with  them  when  they  went  visiting.  Even  now, 
when  people  talk  to  me  of  omniscience  I  always  think 
of  grandmother. 


150 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

MY  WORLD 

"The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers; 
Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours 
And  are  up-gather'd  now  like  sleeping  flowers, 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not.    Great  God!     I'd  rather  be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  out-worn — 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
And  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn." 

— Wordsworth. 

1HAVE  heard  many  times  that  this  is  one  of  the 
best  of  Wordsworth's  many  sonnets,  and  in  the 
matter  of  sonnets,  I  find  myself  compelled  to  depend 
upon  others  for  my  opinions.  I'm  sorry  that  such  is 
the  case,  for  I'd  rather  not  deal  in  second-hand  judg- 
ments if  I  could  help  it.  About  the  most  this  sonnet 
can  do  for  me  is  to  make  me  wonder  what  my  world 
is.  I  suppose  that  the  size  of  my  world  is  the  measure 
of  myself,  and  that  in  my  schoolmastering  I  am  sim- 
ply trying  to  enlarge  the  world  of  my  pupils.  I  saw 
a  gang-plough  the  other  day  that  is  drawn  by  a  motor, 
151 


REVERIES  OF  A   SCHOOLMASTER 

and  that  set  me  to  thinking  of  ploughs  in  general,  and 
their  evolution;  and,  by  tracing  the  plough  backward, 
I  saw  that  the  original  one  must  have  been  the  fore- 
finger of  some  cave-dweller. 

When  his  forefinger  got  sore,  he  got  a  forked  stick 
and  used  that  instead;  then  he  got  a  larger  one  and 
used  both  hands;  then  a  still  larger  one,  and  used  oxen 
as  the  motive  power;  and  then  he  fitted  handles  to 
it,  and  other  parts  till  he  finally  produced  a  plough. 
But  the  principle  has  not  been  changed,  and  the  gang- 
plough  is  but  a  multifold  forefinger.  It  is  great  fun 
to  loose  the  tether  of  the  mind  and  let  it  go  racing 
along,  in  and  out,  till  it  runs  to  earth  the  original  plough. 
Whether  the  solution  is  the  correct  one  makes  but  little 
difference.  If  friend  Brown  cannot  disprove  my  the- 
ory, I  am  on  safe  ground,  and  have  my  fun  whether 
he  accepts  or  rejects  my  findings. 

This  is  one  way  of  enlarging  one's  world,  I  take  it, 
and  if  this  sort  of  thing  is  a  part  of  the  process  of  edu- 
cation, I  am  in  favor  of  it,  and  wish  I  knew  how  to 
set  my  boys  and  girls  going  on  such  excursions.  I  wish 
I  might  have  gone  to  school  to  Agassiz  just  to  get  my 
eyes  opened.  If  I  had,  I'd  probably  assign  to  my 
pupils  such  subjects  as  the  evolution  of  a  snowflake, 
the  travels  of  a  sunbeam,  the  mechanism  of  a  bird's 
wing,  the  history  of  a  dewdrop,  the  changes  in  a  blade 
of  grass,  and  the  evolution  of  a  grain  of  sand.  If  I 
152 


MY  WORLD 

could  only  take  them  away  from  books  for  a  month 
or  so,  they'd  probably  be  able  to  read  the  books  to 
better  advantage  when  they  came  back.  I'd  like  to 
take  them  on  a  walking  trip  over  the  Alps  and  through 
rural  England  and  Scotland  for  a  few  weeks. 

If  they  could  only  gather  broom,  heather,  shamrock, 
and  edelweiss,  they  would  be  able  to  see  clover,  alfalfa, 
arbutus,  and  mignonette  when  they  came  back  home. 
If  they  could  see  black  robins  hi  Wales  and  Germany, 
the  robin  redbreast  here  at  home  would  surely  be 
thought  worthy  of  notice.  If  they  could  see  stalac- 
tites and  stalagmites  in  Luray  Cave,  their  world  would 
then  include  these  formations.  One  of  my  boys  was 
a  member  of  an  exploring  expedition  in  the  Andes, 
and  one  night  they  were  encamped  near  a  glacier. 
This  glacier  protruded  into  a  lake,  and  on  that  par- 
ticular night  the  end  of  that  river  of  ice  broke  off  and 
thus  formed  an  iceberg.  The  glacier  was  nearly  a 
mile  wide,  and  when  the  end  broke  off  the  sound  was 
such  as  to  make  the  loudest  thunder  seem  a  whisper 
by  comparison.  It  was  a  rare  experience  for  this 
young  fellow  to  be  around  where  icebergs  are  made, 
and  vicariously  I  shared  his  experience. 

I  want  to  know  the  price  of  eggs,  bacon,  and  coffee, 

but  I  need  not  go  into  camp  on  the  price-list.    Having 

purchased  my  bacon  and  eggs,  I  like  to  move  along  to 

where  my  friend  is  sitting,  and  hear  him  tell  of  his  ex- 

153 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

periences  with  glaciers  and  icebergs,  and  so  become 
inoculated  with  the  world-enlarging  virus.  Or,  if  he 
comes  in  to  share  my  bacon  and  eggs,  these  mundane 
delights  lose  none  of  their  flavor  by  being  garnished 
with  conversation  on  Andean  themes.  I'm  glad  to 
have  my  friend  push  that  greatest  of  monuments,  "The 
Christ  of  the  Andes,"  over  into  my  world.  I  arise 
from  the  table  feeling  that  I  have  had  full  value  for 
the  money  I  expended  for  eggs  and  bacon. 

I'd  like  to  have  in  my  world  a  liberal  sprinkling  of 
stars,  for  when  I  am  looking  at  stars  I  get  away  from 
sordid  things,  for  a  time,  and  get  my  soul  renovated. 
I  think  St.  Paul  must  have  been  associating  with  starry 
space  just  before  he  wrote  the  last  two  verses  of  that 
eighth  chapter  of  Romans.  I  can't  see  how  he  could 
have  written  such  mighty  thoughts  if  he  had  been 
dwelling  upon  clothes  or  symptoms.  The  reading  of 
a  patent-medicine  circular  is  not  specially  conducive 
to  thoughs  of  infinity.  So  I  like,  in  my  meditations, 
to  take  trips  from  star  to  star,  and  from  planet  to 
planet.  I  like  to  wonder  whether  these  planets  were 
rightly  named — whether  Venus  is  as  beautiful  as  the 
name  implies,  and  whether  the  Martians  are  really 
disciples  of  the  warlike  Mars.  I  like  to  drift  along 
upon  the  canals  on  the  planet  Mars,  with  heroic 
Martians  plying  the  oars.  I  have  great  fun  on  such 
spatial  excursions,  and  am  glad  that  I  ever  annexed 
154 


MY  WORLD 

these  planets  to  my  world.  I  can  take  these  stellar 
companions  with  me  to  my  potato-patch,  and  they 
help  the  day  along. 

I  want  pictures  in  my  world,  too,  and  statues;  for 
they  show  me  the  hearts  of  the  artists,  and  that  is  a 
sort  of  baptism.  Sometimes  I  grow  a  bit  impatient 
to  see  how  slowly  some  work  of  mine  proceeds.  Then 
I  think  of  Ghiberti,  who  worked  for  forty-two  years 
on  the  bronze  doors  of  the  Baptistry  there  in  Florence, 
which  Michael  Angelo  declared  to  be  worthy  of  paradise. 
Then  I  reflect  that  it  was  worth  a  lifetime  of  work  to 
win  the  praise  of  such  as  Angelo.  This  reflection 
calms  me,  and  I  plod  on  more  serenely,  glad  of  the  fact 
that  I  can  count  Ghiberti  and  the  bronze  doors  as  a 
part  of  my  world.  When  I  can  have  Titian,  Rem- 
brandt, Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Andrea  del  Sarto,  Raphael, 
and  Rosa  Bonheur  around,  I  feel  that  I  have  good 
company  and  must  be  on  my  good  behavior.  If 
Corot,  Reynolds,  Leighton,  Watts,  and  Landseer 
should  be  banished  from  my  world  I'd  feel  that  I  had 
suffered  a  great  loss.  I  like  to  hobnob  with  such  folks 
as  these,  both  for  my  own  pleasure  and  also  for  the 
reputation  I  gain  through  such  associations. 

I  must  have  people  in  my  world,  also,  or  it  wouldn't 

be  much  of  a  world.    And  I  must  be  careful  in  my 

selection  of  people,  if  I  am  to  achieve  any  distinction 

as  a  world  builder.    I  just  can't  leave  Cordelia  out, 

155 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

for  she  helps  to  make  my  world  luminous.  But  she 
must  have  companions;  so  I  shall  select  Antigone, 
Evangeline,  Miranda,  Mary,  and  Martha  if  she  can 
spare  the  time.  Among  the  male  contingent  I  shall 
want  Job,  Erasmus,  Petrarch,  Dante,  Goethe,  Shake- 
speare, Milton,  and  Burns.  I  want  men  and  women 
in  whose  presence  I  must  stand  uncovered  to  preserve 
my  self-respect.  I  want  big  people,  wise  people,  and 
dynamic  people  in  my  world,  people  who  will  teach 
me  how  to  work  and  how  to  live. 

If  I  can  get  my  world  made  and  peopled  to  my 
liking,  I  shall  refute  Mr.  Wordsworth's  statement  that 
the  world  is  too  much  with  us.  If  I  can  have  the  right 
sort  of  folks  about  me,  they  will  see  to  it  that  I  do  not 
waste  my  powers,  for  I  shall  be  compelled  to  use  my 
powers  in  order  to  avert  expulsion  from  their  good 
company.  If  I  get  my  world  built  to  suit  me,  I  shall 
have  no  occasion  to  imitate  the  poet's  plaint.  I  sus- 
pect there  is  no  better  fun  in  life  than  in  building  a 
world  of  one's  own. 


156 


CHAPTER  XXV 
THIS  OR  THAT 

ONE  day  in  London  a  friend  told  me  that  on  the 
market  in  that  city  they  have  eggs  of  five  grades 
— new-laid  eggs,  fresh  eggs,  imported  fresh  eggs,  good 
eggs,  and  eggs.  A  few  days  later  we  were  in  the  Tate 
Gallery  looking  at  the  Turner  collection  when  he  told 
me  a  story  of  Turner.  It  seems  that  a  friend  of  the 
artist  was  in  his  studio  watching  him  at  his  work, 
when  suddenly  this  friend  said:  "Really,  Mr.  Turner, 
I  can't  see  in  nature  the  colors  that  you  portray  on 
canvas."  The  artist  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a 
moment,  and  then  replied:  "Don't  you  wish  you 
could?"  Life,  even  at  its  best,  certainly  is  a  maze. 
I  find  myself  in  the  labyrinth,  all  the  while  groping 
about,  but  quite  unable  to  find  the  exit.  Theseus 
was  most  fortunate  in  having  an  Ariadne  to  furnish 
him  with  the  thread  to  guide  him.  But  there  seems 
to  be  no  second  Ariadne  for  me,  and  I  must  continue 
to  grope  with  no  thread  to  guide.  There  in  the  Tate 
Gallery  I  was  standing  enthralled  before  pictures  by 
Watts  and  Leighton,  and  paying  small  heed  to  the 
Turners,  when  the  story  of  my  friend  held  a  mirror 
157 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

before  me,  and  as  I  looked  I  asked  myself  the  ques- 
tion: "Don't  you  wish  you  could?" 

Those  Barbizon  chaps,  artists  that  they  were,  used 
to  laugh  at  Corot  and  tell  him  he  was  parodying  nature, 
but  he  went  right  on  painting  the  foliage  of  his  trees 
silver-gray  until,  finally,  the  other  artists  discovered 
that  he  was  the  only  one  who  was  telling  the  truth  on 
canvas.  Every  one  of  my  dilemmas  seems  to  have  at 
least  a  dozen  horns,  and  I  stand  helpless  before  them, 
fearful  that  I  may  lay  hold  of  the  wrong  one.  I  was 
reading  in  a  book  the  other  day  the  statement  of  a 
man  who  says  he'd  rather  have  been  Louis  Agassiz 
than  the  richest  man  in  America.  In  another  little 
book,  "The  Kingdom  of  Light,"  the  author,  who  is  a 
lawyer,  says  that  Concord,  Massachusetts,  has  influ- 
enced America  to  a  greater  degree  than  New  York 
and  Chicago  combined.  I  think  I'll  blot  out  the  su- 
perlative degree  in  my  grammar,  for  the  comparative 
gives  me  all  the  trouble  I  can  stand. 

Everything  seems  to  be  better  or  worse  than  some- 
thing else,  and  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  best  or 
worst.  So  I'll  dispense  with  the  superlative  degree. 
Whether  I  buy  new-laid  eggs,  or  just  eggs,  I  can't  be 
certain  that  I  have  the  best  or  the  worst  eggs  that  can 
be  found.  If  I  go  over  to  Paris  I  may  find  other  grades 
of  eggs.  Our  Sunday-school  teacher  wanted  a  gener- 
ous contribution  of  money  one  day,  and,  by  way  of 
158 


THIS  OR  THAT 

causing  purse-strings  to  relax,  told  of  a  boy  who  was 
putting  aside  choice  bits  of  meat  as  he  ate  his  dinner. 
Upon  being  asked  by  his  father  why  he  was  doing  so, 
he  replied  that  he  was  saving  the  bits  for  Rover.  He 
was  reminded  that  Rover  could  do  with  scraps  and 
bones,  and  that  he  himself  should  eat  the  bits  he  had 
put  aside.  When  he  went  out  to  Rover  with  the  plate 
of  leavings,  he  patted  him  affectionately  and  said: 
"Poor  doggie!  I  was  going  to  bring  you  an  offering 
to-day;  but  I  guess  you'll  have  to  put  up  with  a  col- 
lection." 

I  like  Robert  Burns  and  think  his  "To  Mary  in 
Heaven"  is  his  finest  poem.  But  the  critics  seem  to 
prefer  his  "Highland  Mary."  So  I  suppose  these 
critics  will  look  at  me,  with  something  akin  to  pity  in 
the  look,  and  say:  "Don't  you  wish  you  could?" 
Years  ago  some  one  planted  trees  about  my  house  for 
shade,  and  selected  poplar.  Now  the  roots  of  these 
trees  invade  the  cellar  and  the  cistern,  and  prove 
themselves  altogether  a  nuisance.  Of  course,  I  can 
cut  out  the  trees,  but  then  I  should  have  no  shade. 
That  man,  whoever  he  was,  might  just  as  well  have 
planted  elms  or  maples,  but,  by  some  sort  of  perversity 
or  ignorance,  planted  poplars,  and  here  am  I,  years 
afterward,  in  a  state  of  perturbation  about  the  safety 
of  cellar  and  cistern  on  account  of  those  pesky  roots. 
I  do  wish  that  man  had  taken  a  course  in  arboriculture 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

before  he  planted  those  trees.  It  might  have  saved 
me  a  deal  of  bother,  and  been  no  worse  for  him. 

Back  home,  after  we  had  passed  through  the  auto- 
graph-album stage  of  development,  we  became  inter- 
ested in  another  sort  of  literary  composition.  It  was 
a  book  in  which  we  recorded  the  names  of  our  favorite 
book,  author,  poem,  statesman,  flower,  name,  place, 
musical  instrument,  and  so  on  throughout  an  entire 
page.  That  experience  was  really  valuable  and  caused 
us  to  do  some  thinking.  It  would  be  well,  I  think,  to 
use  such  a  book  as  that  in  the  examination  of  teachers 
and  pupils.  I  wish  I  might  come  upon  one  of  the  books 
now  in  which  I  set  down  the  record  of  my  favorites. 
It  would  afford  me  some  interesting  if  not  valuable 
information. 

If  I  were  called  upon  to  name  my  favorite  flower  now 
I'd  scarcely  know  what  to  say.  In  one  mood  I'd  cer- 
tainly say  lily-of-the-valley,  but  in  another  mood  I 
might  say  the  rose.  I  do  wonder  if,  in  those  books 
back  yonder,  I  ever  said  sunflower,  dandelion,  dahlia, 
fuchsia,  or  daisy.  If  I  should  find  that  I  said  helio- 
trope, I'd  give  my  adolescence  a  pretty  high  grade. 
If  I  were  using  one  of  these  books  in  my  school,  and 
some  boy  should  name  the  sunflower  as  his  favorite, 
I'd  find  myself  facing  a  big  problem  to  get  him  con- 
verted to  the  lily-of-the-valley,  and  I  really  do  not 
know  quite  how  I  should  proceed.  It  might  not  help 
160 


THIS   OR  THAT 

him  much  for  me  to  ask  him:  "Don't  you  wish  you 
could?"  If  I  should  let  him  know  that  my  favorite 
is  the  lily-of-the-valley,  he  might  name  that  flower  as 
the  line  of  least  resistance  to  my  approval  and  a  high 
grade,  with  the  mental  reservation  that  the  sunflower 
is  the  most  beautiful  plant  that  grows.  Such  a  course 
might  gratify  me,  but  it  certainly  would  not  make  for 
his  progress  toward  the  lily-of-the-valley,  nor  yet  for 
the  salvation  of  his  soul. 

I  have  a  boy  of  my  own,  but  have  never  had  the 
courage  to  ask  him  what  land  of  father  he  thinks  he 
has.  He  might  tell  me.  Again  I  am  facing  a  dilemma. 
Dilemmas  are  quite  plentiful  hereabouts.  I  must  de- 
termine whether  to  regard  him  as  an  asset  or  a  liability. 
But,  that  is  not  the  worst  of  my  troubles.  I  plainly 
see  that  sooner  or  later  he  is  going  to  decide  whether 
his  father  is  an  asset  or  a  liability.  We  must  go  over 
our  books  some  day  so  as  to  find  out  which  of  us  is  in 
debt  to  the  other.  I  know  that  I  owe  him  his  chance, 
but  parents  often  seem  backward  about  paying  their 
debts  to  their  children,  and  I'm  wondering  whether  I 
shall  be  able  to  cancel  that  debt,  to  his  present  and 
ultimate  satisfaction.  I'd  be  decidedly  uncomfortable, 
years  hence,  to  find  him  but  "the  runt  of  something 
good"  because  I  had  failed  to  pay  that  debt.  When  I 
was  a  lad  they  used  to  say  that  I  was  stubborn,  but 
that  may  have  been  my  unsophisticated  way  of  trying 
161 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

to  collect  a  debt.  I  take  some  comfort,  in  these  later 
days,  in  knowing  that  the  folks  at  home  credit  me  with 
the  virtue  of  perseverance,  and  I  wish  they  had  used 
the  milder  word  when  I  was  a  boy. 

There  is  a  picture  show  just  around  the  corner,  and 
I'm  in  a  quandary,  right  now,  whether  to  follow  the 
crowd  to  that  show  or  sit  here  and  read  Ruskin's 
"Sesame  and  Lilies."  If  I  go  to  see  the  picture  film 
I'll  probably  see  an  exhibition  of  cowboy  equestrian 
dexterity,  with  a  "happy  ever  after"  finale,  and  may 
also  acquire  the  reputation  among  the  neighbors  of 
being  up  to  date.  But,  if  I  spend  the  evening  with 
Ruskin,  I  shall  have  something  worth  thinking  over 
as  I  go  about  my  work  to-morrow.  So  here  is  another 
dilemma,  and  there  is  no  one  to  decide  the  matter  for 
me.  This  being  a  free  moral  agent  is  not  the  fun  that 
some  folks  try  to  make  it  appear.  I  don't  really  see 
how  I  shall  ever  get  on  unless  I  subscribe  to  Sam 
Walter  Foss's  lines: 

"No  other  song  has  vital  breath 
Through  endless  time  to  fight  with  death, 
Than  that  the  singer  sings  apart 
To  please  his  solitary  heart." 


162 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
RABBIT  PEDAGOGY 

A 5 1  think  back  over  my  past  life  as  a  schoolmaster 
I  keep  wondering  how  many  inebriates  I  have 
produced  in  my  career.  I'd  be  glad  to  think  that  I 
have  not  a  single  one  to  my  discredit,  but  that  seems 
beyond  the  wildest  hope,  considering  the  character  of 
my  teaching.  I  am  a  firm  believer  in  temperance  in 
all  things;  but,  in  the  matter  of  pedagogy,  my  prac- 
tice cannot  be  made  to  square  with  my  theory.  In 
fact,  I  find,  upon  reflection,  that  I  have  been  teaching 
intemperance  all  the  while.  I'm  glad  the  officers  of 
my  church  do  not  know  of  my  pedagogical  practice. 
If  they  did,  they  would  certainly  take  action  against 
me,  and  in  that  case  I  cannot  see  what  adequate  de- 
fense I  could  offer.  Being  a  schoolmaster,  I  could 
scarcely  bring  myself  to  plead  ignorance,  for  such  a 
plea  as  that  might  abrogate  my  license.  So  I  shall 
just  keep  quiet  and  look  as  nearly  wise  as  possible. 
It  is  embarrassing  to  me  to  reflect  how  long  it  has 
taken  me  to  see  the  error  of  my  practice.  If  I  had 
asked  one  of  my  boys  he  could  have  told  me  of  the 
better  way. 

When  we  got  the  new  desks  in  our  school,  back  home, 
1G3 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

our  teacher  seemed  very  anxious  to  have  them  kept 
in  their  virgin  state,  and  became  quite  animated  as  he 
walked  up  and  down  the  aisle  fulminating  against  the 
possible  offender.  In  the  course  of  his  sulphury  re- 
marks he  threatened  condign  punishment  upon  the 
base  miscreant  who  should  dare  use  his  penknife  on 
one  of  those  desks.  His  address  was  equal  to  a  course 
in  "Paradise  Lost,"  nor  was  it  without  its  effect  upon 
the  audience.  Every  boy  in  the  room  felt  in  his 
pocket  to  make  sure  that  it  contained  his  knife,  and 
every  one  began  to  wonder  just  where  he  would  find 
the  whetstone  when  he  went  home.  We  were  all 
eager  for  school  to  close  for  the  day  that  we  might  set 
about  the  important  matter  of  whetting  our  knives. 
Henceforth  wood-carving  was  a  part  of  the  regular 
order  in  our  school,  but  it  was  done  without  special 
supervision.  Of  course,  each  boy  could  prove  an  alibi 
when  his  own  desk  was  under  investigation.  It  would 
not  be  seemly,  in  this  connection,  to  give  a  verbatim 
report  of  the  conversations  of  us  boys  when  we  assem- 
bled at  our  rendezvous  after  school.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  the  teacher's  ears  must  have  burned.  The  con- 
sensus of  opinion  was  that,  if  the  teacher  didn't  want 
the  desks  carved,  he  should  not  have  told  us  to  carve 
them.  We  seemed  to  think  that  he  had  said,  in  sub- 
stance, that  he  knew  we  were  a  gang  of  young  rascal- 
lions,  and  that,  if  he  didn't  intimidate  us,  we'd  surely 
164 


RABBIT  PEDAGOGY 

be  guilty  of  some  form  of  vandalism.  Then  he  pro- 
ceeded to  point  out  the  way  by  suggesting  penknives; 
and  the  trick  was  done.  We  were  ever  open  to  sug- 
gestions. 

We  had  another  teacher  whose  pet  aversion  was 
match  heads.  Cicero  and  Demosthenes  would  have 
apologized  to  him  could  they  have  come  in  when  he 
was  delivering  one  of  his  eloquent  orations  upon  this 
engaging  theme.  His  vituperative  vocabulary  seemed 
unlimited,  inexhaustible,  and  cumulative.  He  raved, 
and  ranted,  and  exuded  epithets  with  the  most  lavish 
prodigality.  It  seemed  to  us  that  he  didn't  care  much 
what  he  said,  if  he  could  only  say  it  rapidly  and  forci- 
bly. In  the  very  midst  of  an  eloquent  period  another 
match  head  would  explode  under  his  foot,  and  that 
seemed  to  answer  the  purpose  of  an  encore.  The  class 
in  arithmetic  did  not  recite  that  afternoon.  There  was 
no  -time  for  arithmetic  when  match  heads  were  to  the 
fore.  I  sometimes  feel  a  bit  guilty  that  I  was  admitted 
to  such  a  good  show  on  a  free  pass.  The  next  day,  of 
course,  the  Catling  guns  resumed  their  activity;  the 
girls  screeched  as  they  walked  toward  the  water-pail 
to  get  a  drink;  we  boys  studied  our  geography  lesson 
with  faces  garbed  in  a  look  of  innocence  and  wonder; 
our  mothers  at  home  were  wondering  what  had  become 
of  all  the  matches;  and  the  teacher — but  the  less  said 
of  him  the  better. 

165 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

We  boys  needed  only  the  merest  suggestion  to  set  us 
in  motion,  and  like  Dame  Rumor  in  the  ^Eneid,  we 
gathered  strength  by  the  going.  One  day  the  teacher 
became  somewhat  facetious  and  recounted  a  red-pepper 
episode  in  the  school  of  his  boyhood.  That  was  enough 
for  us;  and  the  next  day,  in  our  school,  was  a  day  long 
to  be  remembered.  I  recall  in  the  school  reader  the 
story  of  "Meddlesome  Matty."  Her  name  was  really 
Matilda.  One  day  her  curiosity  got  the  better  of  her, 
and  she  removed  the  lid  from  her  grandmother's  snuff- 
box. The  story  goes  on  to  say: 

"Poor  eyes,  and  nose,  and  mouth,  and  chin 
A  dismal  sight  presented; 
And  as  the  snuff  got  further  in 
Sincerely  she  repented." 

Barring  the  element  of  repentance,  the  red  pepper  was 
equally  provocative  of  results  in  our  school. 

I  certainly  cannot  lay  claim  to  any  great  degree  of 
docility,  for,  in  spite  of  all  the  experiences  of  my  boy- 
hood, I  fell  into  the  evil  ways  of  my  teachers  when  I 
began  my  schoolmastering,  and  suggested  to  my  pupils 
numberless  short  cuts  to  wrong-doing.  I  railed  against 
intoxicants,  and  thus  made  them  curious.  That's 
why  I  am  led  to  wonder  if  I  have  incited  any  of  my 
boys  to  strong  drink  as  my  teachers  incited  me  to  desk- 
carving,  match  heads,  and  red  pepper. 

I  have  come  to  think  that  a  rabbit  excels  me  in  the 
166 


RABBIT  PEDAGOGY 

matter  of  pedagogy.  The  tar-baby  story  that  Joel 
Chandler  Harris  has  given  us  abundantly  proves  my 
statement.  The  rabbit  had  so  often  outwitted  the 
fox  that,  in  desperation,  the  latter  fixed  up  a  tar-baby 
and  set  it  up  in  the  road  for  the  benefit  of  the  rabbit. 
In  his  efforts  to  discipline  the  tar-baby  for  impoliteness, 
the  rabbit  became  enmeshed  in  the  tar,  to  his  great 
discomfort  and  chagrin.  However,  Brer  Rabbit's 
knowledge  of  pedagogy  shines  forth  in  the  following 
dialogue: 

Wen  Brer  Fox  fine  Brer  Rabbit  mixt  up  wid  de  Tar- 
Baby  he  feel  mighty  good,  en  he  roll  on  de  groun'  en  laff. 
Bimeby  he  up'n  say,  sezee: 

"Well,  I  speck  I  got  you  dis  time,  Brer  Rabbit,"  sezee. 
"Maybe  I  ain't,  but  I  speck  I  is.  You  been  runnin' 
roun'  here  sassin'  atter  me  a  mighty  long  time,  but  I  speck 
you  done  come  ter  de  een'  er  de  row.  You  bin  cuttin'  up 
yo'  capers  en  bouncin'  'roun'  in  dis  neighborhood  ontwel 
you  come  ter  b'leeve  yo'se'f  de  boss  er  de  whole  gang. 
En  den  youer  allers  some'rs  whar  you  got  no  bizness,"  sez 
Brer  Fox,  sezee.  "Who  ax  you  fer  ter  come  en  strike  up 
a'quaintance  wid  dish  yer  Tar-Baby?  En  who  stuck  you 
up  dar  whar  you  is  ?  Nobody  in  de  roun'  worril.  You 
des  tuck  en  jam  yo'se'f  on  dat  Tar-Baby  widout  watin' 
fer  enny  invite,"  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee,  "en  dar  you  is,  en 
dar  you'll  stay  twel  I  fixes  up  a  bresh-pile  and  fires  her  up, 
kaze  I'm  gwineter  bobby-cue  you  dis  day,  sho,"  sez  Brer 
Fox,  sezee. 

Den  Brer  Rabbit  talk  mighty  'umble. 

"I  don't  keer  w'at  you  do  wid  me,  Brer  Fox,"  sezee, 
"so  you  don't  fling  me  in  dat  brier-patch.  Roas'  me,  Brer 

167 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

Fox,"  sezee,  "but  don't  fling  me  in  dat  brier-patch,"  sezee. 

"Hit's  so  much  trouble  fer  ter  kindle  a  fier,"  sez  Brer 
Fox,  sezee,  "dat  I  speck  I'll  hatter  hang  you,"  sezee. 

"Hang  me  des  ez  high  as  you  please,  Brer  Fox,"  sez 
Brer  Rabbit,  sezee,  "but  do  fer  de  Lord's  sake  don't  fling 
me  in  dat  brier-patch,"  sezee. 

"I  ain't  got  no  string,"  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee,  "en  now  I 
speck  I'll  hatter  drown  you,"  sezee. 

"Drown  me  des  ez  deep  ez  you  please,  Brer  Fox,"  sez 
Brer  Rabbit,  sezee,  "but  do  don't  fling  me  in  dat  brier- 
patch,"  sezee. 

"Dey  ain't  no  water  nigh,"  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee,  "en 
now  I  speck  I'll  hatter  skin  you,"  sezee. 

"Skin  me,  Brer  Fox,"  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee,  "snatch 
out  my  eyeballs,  far  out  my  years  by  de  roots,  en  cut  off 
my  legs,"  sezee,  "but  do  please,  Brer  Fox,  don't  fling  me 
in  dat  brier-patch,"  sezee. 

Co'se  Brer  Fox  wanter  hurt  Brer  Rabbit  bad  ez  he 
kin,  so  he  cotch  'im  by  de  behime  legs  en  slung  'im  right 
in  de  middle  er  de  brier-patch.  Dar  wuz  a  considerbul 
flutter  whar  Brer  Rabbit  struck  de  bushes,  en  Brer  Fox 
sorter  hang  'roun'  fer  ter  see  w'at  wuz  gwineter  happen. 
Bimeby  he  hear  somebody  call  'im,  en  way  up  de  hill  he 
see  Brer  Rabbit  settin'  cross-legged  on  a  chinkapin  log 
koamin'  de  pitch  outen  his  har  wid  a  chip.  Den  Brer 
Fox  know  dat  he  bin  swop  off  mighty  bad.  Brer  Rabbit 
was  bleedzed  fer  ter  fling  back  some  er  his  sass,  en  he 
holler  out: 

"Bred  en  bawn  in  a  brier-patch,  Brer  Fox — bred  en 
bawn  in  a  brier-patch!"  en  wid  dat  he  skip  out  des  ez 
lively  ez  a  cricket  in  de  embers. 


168 


PERSPECTIVE 

1WISH  I  could  ever  get  the  question  of  majors  and 
minors  settled  to  my  complete  satisfaction.  I 
thought  my  college  course  would  settle  the  matter  for 
all  time,  but  it  didn't.  I  suspect  that  those  erudite 
professors  thought  they  were  getting  me  fitted  out  with 
enduring  habits  of  majors  and  minors,  but  they  seem 
to  have  made  no  allowance  for  changes  of  styles  nor 
for  growth.  When  I  received  my  diploma  they  seemed 
to  think  I  was  finished,  and  would  stay  just  as  they 
had  fixed  me.  They  used  to  talk  no  little  about  fin- 
ished products,  and,  on  commencement  day,  appeared 
to  look  upon  me  as  one  of  them.  On  the  whole,  I'm 
glad  that  I  didn't  fulfil  then*  apparent  expectations.  I 
have  never  been  able  to  make  out  whether  their  atten- 
tions, on  commencement  day,  were  manifestations  of 
pride  or  relief.  I  can  see  now  that  I  must  have  been 
a  sore  trial  to  them.  In  my  callow  days,  when  they 
occupied  pedestals,  I  bent  the  knee  to  them  by  way  of 
propitiating  them,  but  I  got  bravely  over  that.  At 
first,  what  they  taught  and  what  they  represented  were 
169 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

my  majors,  but  when  I  came  to  shift  and  reconstruct 
values,  some  of  them  climbed  down  off  their  pedestals, 
and  my  knee  lost  some  of  its  flexibility. 

We  had  one  little  professor  who  afforded  us  no  end 
of  amusement  by  his  taking  himself  so  seriously.  The 
boys  used  to  say  that  he  wrote  letters  and  sent  flowers  to 
himself.  He  would  strut  about  the  campus  as  proudly 
as  a  pouter-pigeon,  never  realizing,  apparently,  that 
we  were  laughing  at  him.  At  first,  he  impressed  us 
greatly  with  his  grand  air  and  his  clothes,  but  after  we 
discovered  that,  in  his  case  at  least,  clothes  do  not 
make  the  man,  we  refused  to  be  impressed.  He  could 
split  hairs  with  infinite  precision,  and  smoke  a  cigarette 
in  the  most  approved  style,  but  I  never  heard  any  of 
the  boys  express  a  wish  to  become  that  sort  of  man. 
Had  there  occurred  a  meeting,  on  the  campus,  between 
him  and  Zeus  he  would  have  been  offended,  I  am  sure, 
if  Zeus  had  failed  to  set  off  a  few  thunderbolts  in  his 
honor.  We  used  to  have  at  home  a  bantam  rooster 
that  could  create  no  end  of  flutter  in  the  chicken  yard, 
and  could  crow  mightily;  but  when  I  reflected  that  he 
could  neither  lay  eggs  nor  occupy  much  space  in  a 
frying-pan,  I  demoted  him,  in  my  thinking,  from  major 
rank  to  a  low  minor,  and  awarded  the  palm  to  one  of 
the  less  bumptious  but  more  useful  fowls.  Our  little 
professor  had  degrees,  of  course,  and  has  them  yet,  I 
suspect;  but  no  one  ever  discovered  that  he  put  them 
170 


PERSPECTIVE 

to  any  good  use.  For  that  reason  we  boys  lost  interest 
in  the  man  as  well  as  his  garnishments. 

Our  professor  of  chemistry  was  different.  He  was 
never  on  dress-parade;  he  did  not  pose;  he  was  no 
snob.  We  loved  him  because  he  was  so  genuine.  He 
had  degrees,  too,  but  they  were  so  obscured  by  the 
man  that  we  forgot  them  in  our  contemplation  of  him. 
We  knew  that  they  do  not  make  degrees  big  enough 
for  him.  I  often  wonder  what  degrees  the  colleges 
would  want  to  confer  upon  William  Shakespeare  if  he 
could  come  back.  Then,  too,  I  often  think  what  a 
wonderful  letter  Abraham  Lincoln  could  and  might 
have  written  to  Mrs.  Bixby,  if  he  had  only  had  a  degree. 
Agassiz  may  have  had  degrees,  but  he  didn't  really 
need  them.  Like  Browning,  he  was  big  enough,  even 
lacking  degrees,  to  be  known  without  the  identification 
of  his  other  names.  If  people  need  degrees  they  ought 
to  have  them,  especially  if  they  can  live  up  to  them. 
Possibly  the  time  may  come  when  degrees  will  be 
given  for  things  done,  rather  than  for  things  hoped 
for;  given  for  at  least  one  stage  of  the  journey  accom- 
plished rather  than  for  merely  packing  a  travelling- 
bag.  If  this  time  ever  comes  Thomas  A.  Edison  will 
bankrupt  the  alphabet. 

In  this  coil  of  degrees  and  the  absence  of  them,  I 
become  more  and  more  confused  as  to  majors  and 
minors.  There  in  college  were  those  two  professors 
171 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

both  wearing  degrees  of  the  same  size.  Judged  by 
that  criterion  they  should  have  been  of  equal  size  and 
influence.  But  they  weren't.  In  the  one  case  you 
couldn't  see  the  man  for  the  degree;  in  the  other  you 
couldn't  see  the  degree  for  the  man.  Small  wonder 
that  I  find  myself  in  such  a  hopeless  muddle.  I  once 
thought,  in  my  innocence,  that  there  was  a  sort  of 
metric  scale  in  degrees — that  an  A.M.  was  ten  times 
the  size  of  an  A.B.;  that  a  Ph.D.  was  equal  to  ten 
A.M.'s;  and  that  the  LL.D.  degree  could  be  had  only 
on  the  top  of  Mt.  Olympus.  But  here  I  am,  stumbling 
about  among  folks,  and  can't  tell  a  Ph.D.  from  an  A.B. 
I  do  wish  all  these  degree  chaps  would  wear  tags  so 
that  we  wayfaring  folks  could  tell  them  apart.  It 
would  simplify  matters  if  the  railway  people  would 
arrange  compartments  on  their  trains  for  these  various 
degrees.  The  Ph.D.  crowd  would  certainly  feel  more 
comfortable  if  they  could  herd  together,  so  that  they 
need  not  demean  themselves  by  associating  with  mere 
A.M.'s  or  the  more  lowly  A.B.'s.  We  might  hope, 
too,  that  by  way  of  diversion  they  would  put  their 
heads  together  and  compound  some  prescription  by 
the  use  of  which  the  world  might  avert  war,  reduce 
the  high  cost  of  living,  banish  a  woman's  tears,  or  save 
a  soul  from  perdition. 

Be  it  said  to  my  shame,  that  I  do  not  know  what 
even  an  A.B.  means,  much  less  the  other  degree  hier- 
172 


PERSPECTIVE 

oglyphics.  Sometimes  I  receive  a  letter  having  the 
writer's  name  printed  at  the  top  with  an  A.B.  annex; 
but  I  do  not  know  what  the  writer  is  trying  to  say  to 
me  by  means  of  the  printing.  He  probably  wants  me 
to  know  that  he  is  a  graduate  of  some  sort,  but  he 
fails  to  make  it  clear  to  me  whether  his  degree  was  con- 
ferred by  a  high  school,  a  normal  school,  a  college,  or 
a  university.  I  know  of  one  high  school  that  confers 
this  degree,  as  well  as  many  normal  schools  and  col- 
leges. There  are  still  other  institutions  where  this 
same  degree  may  be  had,  that  freely  admit  that  they 
are  colleges,  whether  they  can  prove  it  or  not.  I'll  be 
glad  to  send  a  stamped  envelope  for  reply,  if  some  one 
will  only  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  what  A.B.  does 
really  mean. 

I  do  hope  that  the  earth  may  never  be  scourged  with 
celibacy,  but  the  ever-increasing  variety  of  bachelors, 
male  and  female,  creates  in  me  a  feeling  of  apprehen- 
sion. Nor  can  I  make  out  whether  a  bachelor  of  arts 
is  bigger  and  better  than  bachelors  of  science  and 
pedagogy.  The  arts  folks  claim  that  they  are,  and  pro- 
ceed to  prove  it  by  one  another.  I  often  wonder  what 
a  bachelor  of  arts  can  do  that  the  other  bachelors  can- 
not do,  or  vice  versa.  They  should  all  be  required  to 
submit  a  list  of  their  accomplishments,  so  that,  when 
any  of  the  rest  of  us  want  a  bit  of  work  done,  we  may 
be  able  to  select  wisely  from  among  these  differentiated 
173 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

bachelors.  If  we  want  a  bridge  built,  a  beefsteak 
broiled,  a  mountain  tunnelled,  a  loaf  of  bread  baked, 
a  railroad  constructed,  a  hat  trimmed,  or  a  book 
written,  we  ought  to  know  which  class  of  bachelors 
will  serve  our  purpose  best.  Some  one  asked  me  just 
a  few  days  ago  to  cite  him  to  some  man  or  woman 
who  can  write  a  prize-winning  short  story,  but  I 
couldn't  decide  whether  to  refer  him  to  the  bachelors 
of  arts  or  the  bachelors  of  pedagogy.  I  might  have 
turned  to  the  Litt.D.'s,  but  I  didn't  suppose  they  would 
care  to  bother  with  a  little  thing  like  that. 

In  college  I  studied  Greek  and,  in  fact,  won  a  gold 
medal  for  my  agility  in  ramping  through  Mr.  Xeno- 
phon's  parasangs.  That  medal  is  lost,  so  far  as  I  know, 
and  no  one  now  has  the  remotest  suspicion  that  I  ever 
even  halted  along  through  those  parasangs,  not  to 
mention  ramping,  or  that  I  ever  made  the  acquain- 
tance of  ox-eyed  Juno.  But  I  need  no  medal  to  remind 
me  of  those  experiences  in  the  Greek  class.  Every 
bluebird  I  see  does  that  for  me.  The  good  old  doctor, 
one  morning  in  early  spring,  rhapsodized  for  five 
minutes  on  the  singing  of  a  bluebird  he  had  heard  on 
his  way  to  class,  telling  how  the  little  fellow  was  pour- 
ing forth  a  melody  that  made  the  world  and  all  life 
seem  more  beautiful  and  blessed.  We  loved  him  for 
that,  because  it  proved  that  he  was  a  big-souled  human 
being;  and  pupils  like  to  discover  human  qualities  in 
174 


PERSPECTIVE 

their  teachers.  The  little  professor  may  have  heard 
the  bluebird's  singing,  too;  but  if  he  did,  he  probably 
thought  it  was  serenading  him.  If  colleges  of  educa- 
tion and  normal  schools  would  select  teachers  who  can 
delight  in  the  song  of  a  bluebird  their  academic  attain- 
ments would  be  ennobled  and  glorified,  and  their  stu- 
dents might  come  to  love  instead  of  fearing  them.  Only 
a  man  or  a  woman  with  a  big  soul  can  socialize  and 
vitalize  the  work  of  the  schools.  The  mere  academi- 
cian can  never  do  it. 

The  more  I  think  of  all  these  degree  decorations  in 
my  efforts  to  determine  what  is  major  in  life  and  what 
is  minor,  the  more  I  think  of  George.  He  was  an 
earnest  schoolmaster,  and  was  happiest  when  his  boys 
and  girls  were  around  him,  busy  at  their  tasks.  One 
year  there  were  fourteen  boys  in  his  school,  fifteen  in- 
cluding himself,  for  he  was  one  of  them.  The  school 
day  was  not  long  enough,  so  they  met  in  groups  in 
the  evening,  at  the  various  homes,  and  continued  the 
work  of  the  day.  These  boys  absorbed  his  time,  his 
strength,  and  his  heart.  Their  success  hi  their  work 
was  his  greatest  joy.  Of  those  fourteen  boys  one  is 
no  more.  Of  the  other  thirteen  one  is  a  state  official  of 
high  rank,  five  are  attorneys,  two  are  ministers  of  the 
Gospel,  two  are  bankers,  one  is  a  successful  business 
man,  and  two  are  engineers  of  prominence.  George 
is  the  ideal  of  those  men.  They  all  say  he  gave  them 
175 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

their  start  in  the  right  direction,  and  always  speak  his 
name  with  reverence.  George  has  these  thirteen  stars 
in  his  crown  that  I  know  of.  He  had  no  degrees,  but  I 
am  thinking  that  some  time  he  will  hear  the  plaudit: 
"Well  done,  good  and  faithful  servant." 


176 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
PURELY  PEDAGOGICAL 

IT  was  a  dark,  cold,  rainy  night  in  November.  The 
wind  whistled  about  the  house,  the  rain  beat  a  tat- 
too against  the  window-panes  and  flooded  the  sills. 
The  big  base-burner,  filled  with  anthracite  coal,  was 
illuminating  the  room  through  its  mica  windows,  on 
all  sides,  and  dispensing  a  warmth  that  smiled  at  the 
storm  and  cold  outside.  There  was  a  book  in  the  pic- 
ture, also;  and  a  pair  of  slippers;  and  a  smoking- 
jacket;  and  an  armchair.  From  the  ceiling  was  sus- 
pended a  great  lamp  that  joined  gloriously  in  the 
chorus  of  light  and  cheer.  The  man  who  sat  hi  the 
armchair,  reading  the  book,  was  a  schoolmaster — a 
college  professor  to  be  exact.  Soft  music  floated  up 
from  below  stairs  as  a  soothing  accompaniment  to  his 
reading.  Subconsciously,  as  he  turned  the  pages,  he 
felt  a  pity  for  the  poor  fellows  on  top  of  freight-trains 
who  must  endure  the  pitiless  buffeting  of  the  storm. 
He  could  see  them  bracing  themselves  against  the 
blasts  that  tried  to  wrest  them  from  their  moorings. 
He  felt  a  pity  for  the  belated  traveller  who  tries,  well- 
nigh  in  vain,  to  urge  his  horses  against  the  driving  rain 
177 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

onward  toward  food  and  shelter.  But  the  leaves  of 
the  book  continued  to  turn  at  intervals;  for  the  story 
was  an  engaging  one,  and  the  schoolmaster  was  ever 
responsive  to  well-told  stories. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  or  after,  and  the  fury  of  the 
storm  was  increasing.  As  if  responding  to  the  chal- 
lenge outside,  he  opened  the  draft  of  the  stove  and 
then  settled  back,  thinking  he  would  be  able  to  com- 
plete the  story  before  retiring.  In  the  midst  of  one 
of  the  many  compelling  passages  he  heard  a  bell  toll, 
or  imagined  he  did.  Brought  to  check  by  this  star- 
tling sensation,  he  looked  back  over  the  page  to  dis- 
cover a  possible  explanation.  Finding  none,  he  smiled 
at  his  own  fancy,  and  then  proceeded  with  his  reading. 
But,  again,  the  bell  tolled,  and  he  wondered  whether 
anything  he  had  eaten  at  dinner  could  be  held  re- 
sponsible for  the  hallucination.  Scarcely  had  he  re- 
sumed his  reading  when  the  bell  again  tolled.  He 
could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  must  come  upon  the 
solution  of  the  mystery.  Bells  do  not  toll  at  nine 
o'clock,  and  the  weirdness  of  the  affair  disconcerted 
him.  The  nearer  he  drew  to  the  foot  of  the  stair,  in 
his  quest  for  information,  the  more  foolish  he  felt  his 
question  would  seem  to  the  members  of  the  family. 
But  the  question  had  scarce  been  asked  when  the  boy 
of  the  house  burst  forth:  "Yes,  been  tolling  for  half 
an  hour."  Meekly  he  asked:  "Why  are  they  tolling 
178 


PURELY  PEDAGOGICAL 

the  bell?"  "Child  lost."  "Whose  child?"  "Little 
girl  belonging  to  the  Norwegians  who  live  in  the  shack 
down  there  by  the  woods." 

So,  that  was  it!  Well,  it  was  some  satisfaction  to 
have  the  matter  cleared  up,  and  now  he  could  go  back 
to  his  book.  He  had  noticed  the  shack  in  question, 
which  was  made  of  slabs  set  upright,  with  a  precari- 
ous roof  of  tarred  paper;  and  had  heard,  vaguely, 
that  a  gang  of  Norwegians  were  there  to  make  a 
road  through  the  woods  to  Minnehaha  Falls.  Beyond 
these  bare  facts  he  had  never  thought  to  inquire. 
These  people  and  their  doings  were  outside  of  his 
world.  Besides,  the  book  and  the  cheery  room  were 
awaiting  his  return.  But  the  reading  did  not  get  on 
well.  The  tolling  bell  broke  in  upon  it  and  brought 
before  his  mind  the  picture  of  a  little  girl  wandering 
about  hi  the  storm  and  crying  for  her  mother.  He 
tried  to  argue  with  himself  that  these  Norwegians 
did  not  belong  hi  his  class,  and  that  they  ought  to 
look  after  their  own  children.  He  was  under  no  ob- 
ligations to  them — in  fact,  did  not  even  know  them. 
They  had  no  right,  therefore,  to  break  in  upon  the 
serenity  of  his  evening. 

But  the  bell  tolled  on.    If  he  could  have  wrenched 

the  clapper  from  out  that  bell,  the  page  of  his  book 

might  not  have  blurred  before  his  eyes.    As  the  wind 

moaned  about  the  house  he  thought  he  heard  a  child 

179 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

crying,  and  started  to  his  feet.  It  was  inconceivable, 
he  argued,  that  he,  a  grown  man,  should  permit  such 
incidental  matters  in  life  to  so  disturb  his  composure. 
There  were  scores,  perhaps  hundreds,  of  children  lost 
somewhere  in  the  world,  for  whom  regiments  of  peo- 
ple were  searching,  and  bells  were  tolling,  too.  So 
why  not  be  philosophical  and  read  the  book?  But  the 
words  would  not  keep  their  places,  and  the  page  yielded 
forth  no  coherent  thought.  He  could  endure  the  ten- 
sion no  longer.  He  became  a  whirlwind — slamming 
the  book  upon  the  table,  kicking  off  the  slippers,  throw- 
ing the  smoking-jacket  at  random,  and  rushing  to  the 
closet  for  his  gear.  At  ten  o'clock  he  was  ready — 
hip-boots,  slouch-hat,  rubber  coat,  and  lantern,  and 
went  forth  into  the  storm. 

Arriving  at  the  scene,  he  took  his  place  in  the  search- 
ing party  of  about  twenty  men.  They  were  to  search 
the  woods,  first  of  all,  each  man  to  be  responsible  for 
a  space  about  two  or  three  rods  wide  and  extending 
to  the  road  a  half-mile  distant.  Lantern  in  hand,  he 
scrutinized  each  stone  and  stump,  hoping  and  fearing 
that  it  might  prove  to  be  the  little  one.  In  the  dark- 
ness he  stumbled  over  logs  and  vines,  became  entangled 
in  briers  and  brambles,  and  often  was  deluged  with 
water  from  trees  as  he  came  in  contact  with  over- 
hanging boughs.  But  his  blood  was  up,  for  he  was 
seeking  a  lost  baby.  When  he  fell  full-length  hi  the 
180 


PURELY  PEDAGOGICAL 

swale,  he  got  to  his  feet  the  best  he  could  and  went  on. 
Book  and  room  were  forgotten  in  the  glow  of  a  larger 
purpose.  So  for  two  hours  he  splashed  and  struggled, 
but  had  never  a  thought  of  abandoning  the  quest  until 
the  child  should  be  found. 

At  twelve  o'clock  they  had  reached  the  road  and 
were  about  to  begin  the  search  in  another  section  of 
the  wood  when  the  church-bell  rang.  This  was  the 
signal  that  they  should  return  to  the  starting-point 
to  hear  any  tidings  that  might  have  come  in  the  mean- 
time. Scarcely  had  they  heard  that  a  message  had 
come  from  police  headquarters  in  the  city,  and  that 
information  could  be  had  there  concerning  a  lost  child 
when  the  schoolmaster  called  out:  "Come  on,  Craig!" 
And  away  went  these  two  toward  the  barn  to  arouse 
old  "Blackie"  out  of  her  slumber  and  hitch  her  to  a 
buggy.  Little  did  that  old  nag  ever  dream,  even  hi 
her  palmiest  days,  that  she  could  show  such  speed  as 
she  developed  in  that  four-mile  drive.  The  school- 
master was  too  much  wrought  up  to  sit  supinely  by 
and  see  another  do  the  driving;  so  he  did  it  himself. 
And  he  drove  as  to  the  manner  born. 

The  information  they  obtained  at  the  police  station 
was  meagre  enough,  but  it  furnished  them  a  clew.  A 
little  girl  had  been  found  wandering  about,  and  could 
be  located  on  a  certain  street  at  such  a  number.  The 
name  of  the  family  was  not  known.  With  this  slen- 
181 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

der  clew  they  began  their  search  for  the  street  and 
house.  The  map  of  streets  which  they  had  hastily 
sketched  seemed  hopelessly  inadequate  to  guide  them 
in  and  out  of  by-streets  and  around  zigzag  corners. 
They  had  adventures  a  plenty  in  pounding  upon  doors 
of  wrong  houses  and  thus  arousing  the  fury  of  sleepy 
men  and  sleepless  dogs.  One  of  the  latter  tore  away 
a  quarter-section  of  the  schoolmaster's  rubber  coat, 
and  became  so  interested  in  this  that  the  owner  es- 
caped with  no  further  damage.  After  an  hour  filled 
with  such  experiences  they  finally  came  to  the  right 
house.  Joy  flooded  their  hearts  as  the  man  inside 
called  out:  "Yes,  wait  a  minute."  Once  inside,  ques- 
tions and  answers  flew  back  and  forth  like  a  shuttle. 
Yes,  a  little  girl — about  five  years  old — light  hair — 
braided  and  hanging  down  her  back — check  apron. 
"She's  the  one — and  we  want  to  take  her  home." 
Then  the  lady  appeared,  and  said  it  was  too  bad  to 
take  the  little  one  out  into  such  a  night.  But  the 
schoolmaster  bore  her  argument  down  with  the  word- 
picture  of  the  little  one's  mother  pacing  back  and  forth 
in  front  of  the  shack,  her  hair  hanging  in  strings,  her 
clothing  drenched  with  rain  and  clinging  to  her  body, 
her  eyes  upturned,  and  her  face  expressing  the  most 
poignant  agony.  When  they  left  she  had  thus  been 
pacing  to  and  fro  for  seven  hours  and  was,  no  doubt, 
doing  so  yet.  The  mother-heart  of  the  woman  could 
182 


PURELY  PEDAGOGICAL 

not  withstand  such  an  appeal,  and  soon  she  was  busy 
in  the  difficult  task  of  trying  to  get  the  little  arms 
into  the  sleeves  of  dress  and  apron.  Meanwhile,  the 
two  bedraggled  men  were  on  their  knees  striving  with 
that  acme  of  awkwardness  of  which  only  men  are 
capable,  to  ensconce  the  little  feet  in  stockings  and 
shoes.  The  dressing  of  that  child  was  worthy  the 
brush  of  Raphael  or  the  smile  of  angels.  At  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning  the  schoolmaster  stepped  from 
the  buggy  and  placed  the  sleeping  baby  in  the  moth- 
er's arms,  and  only  the  heavenly  Father  knows  the 
language  she  spoke  as  she  crooned  over  her  little  one. 
As  the  schoolmaster  wended  his  way  homeward,  cold, 
hungry,  and  worn  he  was  buoyant  in  spirit  to  the 
point  of  ecstasy.  But  he  was  chastened,  for  he  had 
stood  upon  the  Mount  of  Transfiguration  and  knew 
as  never  before  that  the  mission  of  the  schoolmaster 
is  to  find  and  restore  the  lost  child. 


183 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
LONGEVITY 

I'M  quite  in  the  notion  of  playing  a  practical  joke 
on  Atropos,  and,  perhaps,  on  Methuselah,  while 
I'm  about  it.  I'm  not  partial  to  Atropos  at  the  best. 
She's  such  a  reckless,  uppish,  heedless  sort  of  tyrant. 
She  rushes  into  huts,  palaces,  and  even  into  the  grand 
stand,  and  lays  about  her  with  her  scissors,  snipping 
off  threads  with  the  utmost  abandon.  She  wields  her 
shears  without  any  sort  of  apology  or  by  your  leave. 
Not  even  a  check-book  can  stay  her  ravages.  Her 
devastation  knows  neither  ruth  nor  gentleness.  I 
don't  like  her,  and  have  no  compunction  about  play- 
ing a  joke  at  her  expense.  I  don't  imagine  it  will 
daunt  her,  in  the  least,  but  I  can  have  my  fun,  at  any 
rate. 

It  is  now  just  seven  o'clock  hi  the  evening,  and  I 
shall  not  retire  before  ten  o'clock  at  the  earliest.  So 
here  are  three  good  hours  for  me  to  dispose  of;  and 
I  am  the  sole  arbiter  in  the  matter  of  disposing  of 
them.  My  neighbor  John  has  a  cow,  and  he  is  apply- 
ing the  efficiency  test  to  her.  He  charges  her  with 
every  pound  of  corn,  bran,  fodder,  and  hay  that  she 
184 


LONGEVITY 

eats,  and  doctor's  bills,  too,  I  suppose,  if  there  are  any. 
Then  he  credits  her  with  all  the  milk  she  furnishes. 
There  is  quite  a  book-account  in  her  name,  and  John 
has  a  good  time  figuring  out  whether,  judged  by  net 
results,  she  is  a  consumer  or  a  producer.  If  I  can 
resurrect  sufficient  mathematical  lore,  I  think  I  shall 
try  to  apply  this  efficiency  test  to  my  three  hours  just 
to  see  if  I  can  prove  that  hours  are  as  important  as 
cows.  I  ought  to  be  able,  somehow,  to  determine 
whether  these  hours  are  consumers  or  producers. 

I  read  a  book  the  other  evening  whose  title  is  "  Sto- 
ries of  Thrift  for  Young  Americans,"  and  it  made  me 
feel  that  I  ought  to  apply  the  efficiency  test  to  myself, 
and  repeat  the  process  every  waking  hour  of  the  day. 
But,  in  order  to  do  this,  I  must  apply  the  test  to  these 
three  hours.  In  my  dreamy  moods,  I  like  to  personify 
an  Hour  and  spell  it  with  a  capital.  I  like  to  think  of 
an  hour  as  the  singular  of  Houri  which  the  Moham- 
medans call  nymphs  of  paradise,  because  they  were, 
or  are,  beautiful-eyed.  My  Hour  then  becomes  a  god- 
dess walking  through  my  life,  and,  as  the  poet  says, 
et  vera  incessu  patuit  dea.  If  I  show  her  that  I  appre- 
ciate her  she  comes  again  just  after  the  clock  strikes, 
in  form  even  more  winsome  than  before,  and  smiles 
upon  me  as  only  a  goddess  can.  Once,  in  a  sullen 
mood,  I  looked  upon  her  as  if  she  were  a  hag.  When 
she  returned  she  was  a  hag;  and  not  till  after  I  had 
185 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

done  full  penance  did  she  become  my  beautiful  god- 
dess again. 

A  young  man  who  had  been  spending  the  evening 
in  the  home  of  a  neighbor  complained  that  they  did 
not  play  any  games,  and  did  nothing  but  talk.  I  could 
not  ask  what  games  he  meant,  fearing  that  I  might 
smile  in  his  face  if  he  should  say  crokinole,  tiddledy- 
winks,  or  button-button.  Later  on  I  learned  that 
much  of  the  talking  was  done  that  evening  by  a  very 
cultivated  man  who  has  travelled  widely  and  intelli- 
gently, and  has  a  most  engaging  manner  in  his  fluent 
discussions  of  art,  literature,  archaeology,  architecture, 
places,  and  peoples.  I  was  sorry  to  miss  such  an 
evening,  and  think  I  could  forego  tiddledywinks  with 
a  fair  degree  of  amiability  if,  instead,  I  could  hear 
such  a  man  talk.  I  have  seen  people  yawn  in  an  art 
gallery.  I  fear  to  play  tiddledywinks  lest  my  hour 
may  resume  the  guise  of  a  hag.  But  that  makes  me 
think  of  Atropos  again,  and  the  joke  I  am  planning  to 
play  on  her.  Still,  I  see  that  I  shall  not  soon  get 
around  to  that  joke  if  I  persist  in  these  dim  generali- 
ties, as  a  schoolmaster  is  so  apt  to  do. 

Well,  as  I  was  saying,  these  three  hours  are  at  my 
disposal,  and  I  must  decide  what  to  do  with  them 
here  and  now.  In  deciding  concerning  hours  I  must 
sit  in  the  judgment-seat  whether  I  like  it  or  not.  To- 
morrow evening  I  shall  have  other  three  hours  to  dis- 
186 


LONGEVITY 

pose  of  the  same  as  these,  and  the  next  evening  three 
others,  and  my  decision  to-night  may  be  far-reaching. 
In  six  days  I  shall  have  eighteen  such  hours,  and  hi 
fifty  weeks  nine  hundred.  I  suppose  that  a  generous 
estimate  of  a  college  year  would  be  ten  hours  a  day 
for  one  hundred  and  eighty  days,  or  eighteen  hundred 
hours  in  all.  I  am  quite  aware  that  some  college 
boys  will  feel  inclined  to  apply  a  liberal  discount  to 
this  estimate,  but  I  am  not  considering  those  fellows 
who  try  to  do  a  month's  work  in  the  week  of  examina- 
tion, and  spend  their  fathers'  money  for  coaching. 
Now,  if  eighteen  hundred  hours  constitute  a  college 
year  then  my  nine  hundred  hours  are  one-half  a  col- 
lege year,  and  it  makes  a  deal  of  difference  what  I  do 
with  these  three  hours. 

If  I  had  only  started  this  joke  on  Atropos  earlier 
and  had  applied  these  nine  hundred  hours  on  my 
college  work,  I  could  have  graduated  in  three  years 
instead  of  four,  and  that  surely  would  have  been  in 
the  line  of  efficiency.  But  in  those  days  I  was  de- 
voting more  time  and  attention  to  Clotho  than  to 
Atropos.  I  would  fain  have  ignored  Lachesis  alto- 
gether, but  she  made  me  painfully  conscious  of  her 
presence,  especially  during  the  finals  when,  it  seemed 
to  me,  she  was  unnecessarily  diligent  in  her  vocation. 
I  could  have  dispensed  with  much  of  her  torsion  with 
great  equanimity.  I  suppose  that  now  I  am  trying 
187 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

to  square  accounts  with  her  by  playing  this  joke  on 
her  sister. 

So  I  have  decided  that  I  shall  read  a  play  of  Shake- 
speare to-night,  another  one  to-morrow  evening,  and 
continue  this  until  I  have  read  all  that  he  wrote.  In 
the  fifty  weeks  of  the  year  I  can  easily  do  this  and  then 
reread  some  of  them  many  times.  I  ought  to  be  able 
to  commit  to  memory  several  of  the  plays,  too,  and 
that  would  be  good  fun.  If  those  chaps  back  yonder 
could  recite  the  Koran  word  for  word  I  shall  cer- 
tainly be  able  to  learn  equally  well  some  of  these 
plays.  It  would  be  worth  while  to  recite  "King  Lear," 
"Macbeth,"  "Othello,"  "Hamlet,"  "The  Tempest," 
and  "As  You  Like  It,"  the  last  week  of  the  year  just 
before  I  take  my  vacation  of  two  weeks.  If  I  can 
recite  even  these  six  plays  in  those  six  evenings  I  shall 
feel  that  I  did  well  in  deciding  for  Shakespeare  in- 
stead of  tiddledywinks. 

Next  year  I  shall  read  history,  and  that  will  be 
rare  fun,  too.  In  the  nine  hundred  hours  I  shall  cer- 
tainly be  able  to  read  all  of  Fiske,  Mommsen,  Rhodes, 
Bancroft,  McMaster,  Charming,  Bryce,  Hart,  Motley, 
Gibbon,  and  von  Hoist  not  to  mention  American 
statesmen.  About  the  Ides  of  December  I  shall  hold 
a  levee  and  sit  in  state  as  the  characters  of  history 
file  by.  I  shall  be  able  to  call  them  all  by  name,  to 
tell  of  the  things  they  did  and  why  they  did  them, 
and  to  connect  their  deeds  with  the  world  as  it  now  is. 
188 


LONGEVITY 

I  can't  conceive  of  any  picture-show  equal  to  that, 
and  all  through  my  year  with  Shakespeare  I  shall 
be  looking  forward  eagerly  to  my  year  with  the  his- 
torians. I  plainly  see  that  the  neighbors  will  not 
need  to  bring  in  any  playthings  to  amuse  and  enter- 
tain me,  though,  of  course,  I  shall  be  grateful  to  them 
for  their  kindly  interest.  Then,  the  next  year  I  shall 
devote  to  music,  and  if,  by  practising  for  nine  hun- 
dred hours,  I  cannot  acquire  a  good  degree  of  facility 
in  manipulating  a  piano  or  a  violin,  I  must  be  too 
dull  to  ever  aspire  to  the  favor  of  Terpsichore.  If 
I  but  measure  up  to  my  hopes  during  this  year  I  shall 
be  saved  the  expense  of  buying  my  music  ready- 
made.  The  next  year  I  shall  devote  to  art,  and  by 
spending  one  entire  evening  with  a  single  artist  I 
shall  thus  become  acquainted  with  three  hundred 
of  them.  If  I  become  intimate  with  this  number  I 
shall  not  be  lonesome,  even  if  I  do  not  know  the  others. 
I  think  I  shall  give  an  art  party  at  the  holiday  time 
of  that  year,  and  have  three  hundred  people  im- 
personate these  artists.  This  will  afford  me  a  good 
review  of  my  studies  in  art.  It  may  diminish  the  gate 
receipts  of  the  picture-show  for  a  few  evenings,  but  I 
suspect  the  world  will  be  able  to  wag  along. 

Then  the  next  year  I  shall  study  poetry,  the  next 

astronomy,  and  the  next  botany.     Thus  I  shall  come 

to  know  the  plants  of  earth,  the  stars  of  heaven, 

and  the  emotions  of  men.     That  ought  to  ward  off 

189 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

ennui  and  afford  entertainment  without  the  aid  of 
the  saloon.  In  the  succeeding  twelve  years  I  shall 
want  to  acquire  as  many  languages,  for  I  am  eager 
to  excel  Elihu  Burritt  in  linguistic  attainments  even 
if  I  must  yield  to  him  as  a  disciple  of  Vulcan.  If  I 
can  learn  a  language  and  read  the  literature  of  that 
language  each  year,  possibly  some  college  may  be 
willing  to  grant  me  a  degree  for  work  in  absentia. 
If  not,  I  shall  poke  along  the  best  I  can  and  try  to 
drown  my  grief  in  more  copious  drafts  of  work. 

And  I  shall  have  quite  enough  to  do,  for  mathe- 
matics, the  sciences,  and  the  arts  and  crafts  all  lie 
ahead  of  me  hi  my  programme.  I  plainly  see  that  I 
have  played  my  last  game  of  tiddledywinks  and 
solitaire.  But  I'll  have  fun  anyhow.  If  I  gain  a 
half-year  in  each  twelve-month  as  I  have  my  pro- 
gramme mapped  out,  in  seventy  years  I  shall  have  a 
net  gain  of  thirty-five  years.  Then,  when  Atropos 
comes  along  with  her  scissors  to  snip  the  thread, 
thinking  I  have  reached  my  threescore  and  ten,  I 
shall  laugh  in  her  face  and  let  her  know,  between 
laughs,  that  I  am  really  one  hundred  and  five,  and 
have  played  a  thirty-five-year  joke  on  her.  Then  I 
shall  quote  Bacon  at  her  to  clinch  the  joke:  "A  man 
may  be  young  hi  years  but  old  in  hours  if  he  have 
lost  no  time." 


190 


CHAPTER  XXX 
FOUR-LEAF  CLOVER 

I  HAVE  no  ambition  to  become  either  a  cynic,  a 
pessimist,  or  an  iconoclast.  To  aspire  in  either  of 
these  directions  is  bad  for  the  digestion,  and  good 
digestion  is  the  foundation  and  source  of  much  that 
is  desirable  in  human  affairs.  Introspection  has  its 
uses,  to  be  sure,  but  the  stomach  should  have  exemp- 
tion as  an  objective.  A  stomach  is  a  valuable  asset  if 
only  one  is  not  conscious  of  it.  One  of  the  emoluments 
of  schoolmastering  is  the  opportunity  it  affords  for 
communing  with  elect  souls  whose  very  presence  is 
a  tonic.  Will  is  one  of  these.  He  has  a  way  of  shunt- 
ing my  introspection  over  to  the  track  of  the  head  or 
the  heart.  He  just  talks  along  and  the  first  thing  I 
know  the  heart  is  singing  its  way  through  and  above 
the  storm,  while  the  head  has  been  connected  up  to 
the  heart,  and  they  are  doing  team-work  that  is 'good 
for  me  and  good  for  all  who  meet  me.  At  church  I 
like  to  have  them  sing  the  hymn  whose  closing  coup- 
let is: 

"  I'll  drop  my  burden  at  his  feet 
And  bear  a  song  away." 

I  come  out  strong  in  singing  that  couplet,  for  I  like 

it.    In  a  human  sense,  that  is  just  what  happens  when 

191 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

I  chat  with  Will  for  an  hour.  When  I  ask  him  for 
bread,  he  never  gives  me  a  stone.  On  the  contrary, 
he  gives  me  good,  white  bread,  and  a  bit  of  cake,  be- 
sides. 

In  one  of  our  chats  the  other  day  he  was  dilating 
upon  Henry  van  Dyke's  four  rules,  and  very  soon 
had  banished  all  my  little  clouds  and  made  my  mental 
sky  clear  and  bright.  When  I  get  around  to  evolving 
a  definition  of  education  I  think  I  shall  say  that  it  is 
the  process  of  furnishing  people  with  resources  for 
profitable  and  pleasant  conversation.  Why,  those 
four  rules  just  oozed  into  the  talk,  without  any  sort 
of  flutter  or  formality,  and  made  our  chat  both  agree- 
able and  fruitful.  Henry  Ward  Beecher  said  many 
good  things.  Here  is  one  that  I  caught  hi  the  school 
reader  in  my  boyhood:  "The  man  who  carries  a  lan- 
tern on  a  dark  night  can  have  friends  all  about  him, 
walking  safely  by  the  help  of  its  rays  and  he  be  not 
defrauded."  Education  is  just  such  a  lantern  and 
this  schoolmaster,  Will,  knows  how  to  carry  it  that 
it  may  afford  light  to  the  friends  about  him. 

Well,  the  first  of  van  Dyke's  rules  is:  "You  shall 
learn  to  desire  nothing  in  the  world  so  much  but  that 
you  can  be  happy  without  it."  I  do  wonder  if  he  had 
been  reading  in  Proverbs:  "Better  is  a  dinner  of  herbs 
where  love  is  than  a  stalled  ox  and  hatred  therewith." 
Or  he  may  have  been  reading  the  statement  of  St. 
192 


FOUR-LEAF   CLOVER 

Paul:  "For  I  have  learned,  in. whatever  state  I  am, 
therewith  to  be  content."  Or,  possibly,  he  may  have 
been  thinking  of  the  lines  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar, 

"Sometimes  the  sun,  unkindly  hot, 
My  garden  makes  a  desert  spot; 
Sometimes  the  blight  upon  the  tree 
Takes  all  my  fruit  away  from  me; 
And  then  with  throes  of  bitter  pain 
Rebellious  passions  rise  and  swell — 
But  life  is  more  than  fruit  or  grain, 
And  so  I  sing,  and  all  is  well." 

I  am  plebeian  enough  to  be  fond  of  milk  and  crackers 
as  a  luncheon;  but  I  have  just  a  dash  of  the  patrician 
in  my  make-up  and  prefer  the  milk  unskimmed. 
Sometimes,  I  find  that  the  cream  has  been  devoted 
to  other,  if  not  higher,  uses  and  that  my  crackers 
must  associate  perforce  with  milk  of  cerulean  hue. 
Such  a  situation  is  a  severe  test  of  character,  and  I 
am  hoping  that  at  such  junctures  along  life's  high- 
way I  may  find  some  support  in  the  philosophy  of 
Mr.  van  Dyke. 

I  suspect  that  he  is  trying  to  make  me  understand 
that  happiness  is  subjective  rather  than  objective — 
that  happiness  depends  not  upon  what  we  have,  but 
upon  what  we  do  with  what  we  have.  I  couldn't 
be  an  anarchist  if  I'd  try.  I  don't  grudge  the  mil- 
lionaire his  turtle  soup  and  caviar.  But  I  do  feel 
a  bit  sorry  for  him  that  he  does  not  know  what  a 
193 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

royal  feast  crackers  and  unskimmed  milk  afford. 
If  the  king  and  the  anarchist  would  but  join  me  in 
such  a  feast  I  think  the  king  would  soon  forget  his 
crown  and  the  anarchist  his  plots,  and  we'd  be  just 
three  good  fellows  together,  living  at  the  very  summit 
of  life  and  wishing  that  all  men  could  be  as  happy 
as  we. 

The  next  rule  is  a  condensed  moral  code:  "You 
shall  seek  that  which  you  desire  only  by  such  means 
as  are  fair  and  lawful,  and  this  will  leave  you  without 
bitterness  toward  men  or  shame  before  God."  No 
one  could  possibly  dissent  from  this  rule,  unless  it 
might  be  a  burglar.  I  know  the  grocer  makes  a  profit 
on  the  things  I  buy  from  him,  and  I  am  glad  he  does. 
Otherwise,  he  would  have  to  close  his  grocery  and 
that  would  inconvenience  me  greatly.  He  thanks 
me  when  I  pay  him,  but  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  thank 
him  for  supplying  my  needs,  for  having  his  goods 
arranged  so  invitingly,  and  for  waiting  upon  me  so 
promptly  and  so  politely.  I  can't  really  see  how  any 
customer  can  feel  any  bitterness  toward  him.  He 
gives  full  weight,  tells  the  exact  truth  as  to  the  quality 
of  the  goods,  and  in  all  things  is  fair  and  lawful.  I 
have  no  quarrel  with  him  and  cannot  understand 
why  others  should,  unless  they  are  less  fair,  lawful, 
and  agreeable  than  the  grocer  himself.  I  suspect 
that  the  grocer  and  the  butcher  take  on  the  color  of 
194 


FOUR-LEAF   CLOVER 

the  glasses  we  happen  to  be  wearing,  and  that  Mr. 
van  Dyke  is  admonishing  us  to  wear  clear  glasses 
and  to  keep  them  clean. 

The  third  rule  needs  to  be  read  at  least  twice  if 
not  of  tenet:  "You  shall  take  pleasure  in  the  time 
while  you  are  seeking,  even  though  you  obtain  not 
immediately  that  which  you  seek;  for  the  purpose  of 
a  journey  is  not  only  to  arrive  at  the  goal,  but  also 
to  find  enjoyment  by  the  way."  I  have  seen  people 
rushing  along  in  automobiles  at  the  mad  rate  of  thirty 
or  forty  miles  an  hour,  missing  altogether  the  mil- 
lion-dollar scenery  along  the  way,  in  their  haste  to 
get  to  the  end  of  their  journey,  where  a  five-cent  bag 
of  peanuts  awaited  them.  Had  I  been  riding  in  an 
automobile  through  the  streets  of  Tacoma  I  might 
not  have  seen  that  glorious  cluster  of  five  beautiful 
roses  on  a  single  branch  in  that  attractive  lawn.  Be- 
cause of  them  I  always  think  of  Tacoma  as  the  city 
of  roses,  for  I  stopped  to  look  at  them.  I  have  quite 
forgotten  the  objective  point  of  my  stroll;  I  recollect 
the  roses.  When  we  were  riding  out  from  Florence 
on  a  tram-car  to  see  the  ancient  Fiesole  I  plucked  a 
branch  from  an  olive-tree  from  the  platform  of  the 
car.  On  that  branch  were  at  least  a  dozen  young 
olives,  the  first  I  had  ever  seen.  I  have  but  the  haziest 
recollection  of  the  old  theatre  and  the  subterranean 
passages  where  Catiline  and  his  crowd  had  their 
195 


REVERIES   OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

rendezvous;  but  I  do  recall  that  olive  branch  most 
distinctly.  I  cannot  improve  upon  Doctor  van  Dyke's 
statement  of  the  rule,  but  I  can  interpret  it  in  terms 
of  my  own  experiences  by  way  of  verifying  it.  I  am 
sure  he  has  it  right. 

The  fourth  rule  is  worthy  of  meditation  and  prayer : 
"When  you  attain  that  which  you  have  desired,  you 
shall  think  more  of  the  kindness  of  your  fortune  than 
of  the  greatness  of  your  skill.  This  will  make  you 
grateful  and  ready  to  share  with  others  that  which 
Providence  hath  bestowed  upon  you;  and  truly  this 
is  both  reasonable  and  profitable,  for  it  is  but  little 
that  any  of  us  would  catch  hi  this  world  were  not 
our  luck  better  than  our  deserts."  I  shall  omit  the 
lesson  in  arithmetic  to-morrow  and  have,  instead,  a 
lesson  in  life  and  living,  using  these  four  rules  as  the 
basis  of  our  lesson.  My  boys  and  girls  are  to  have 
many  years  of  We,  I  hope,  and  I'd  like  to  help  them 
to  a  right  start  if  I  can.  Some  of  my  many  mistakes 
might  have  been  avoided  if  my  teachers  had  given 
me  some  lessons  in  the  art  of  living,  for  it  is  an  art 
and  must  be  learned.  These  rules  would  have  helped, 
could  I  have  known  them.  I  am  glad  to  know  that 
my  pupils  have  faith  in  me.  When  I  pointed  out  a 
nettle  to  them  one  day,  they  avoided  it;  when  I 
showed  them  a  mushroom  that  is  edible,  they  ac- 
cepted the  statement  without  question.  So  I'll  see 
196 


FOUR-LEAF  CLOVER 

what  I  can  do  for  them  to-morrow  with  these  four 
rules.  Then,  if  we  have  time,  we  shall  learn  the  lines 
of  Mrs.  Higginson: 

"  I  know  a  place  where  the  sun  is  like  gold, 
And  the  cherry  blooms  burst  with  snow, 
And  down  underneath  is  the  loveliest  nook, 
Where  the  four-leaf  clovers  grow. 

One  leaf  is  for  hope,  and  one  is  for  faith, 

And  one  is  for  love,  you  know, 
And  God  put  another  in  for  luck — 

If  you  search,  you  will  find  where  they  grow. 

But  you  must  have  hope,  and  you  must  have  faith, 
You  must  love  and  be  strong — and  so, 

If  you  work,  if  you  wait,  you  will  find  the  place 
Where  the  four-leaf  clovers  grow." 


in: 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
MOUNTAIN-CLIMBING 

TV/rOUNTAIN-CLIMBING  is  rare  sport.  And  it 
^A  is  sport  if  only  one  has  the  courage  to  do  it. 
We  had  gone  to  the  top  of  Vesuvius  on  the  funicular 
railway;  but  one  man  decided  to  make  the  climb. 
We  forgot  the  volcano  hi  our  admiration  of  the  climber. 
Foot  by  foot  he  made  his  way  zigzagging  this  way  and 
that,  slipping,  falling,  and  struggling  till  at  last  he 
reached  the  summit.  Then,  fifty  throats  poured  forth 
a  lusty  cheer  to  do  him  honor.  He  was  not  good  to 
look  at,  for  his  clothing  was  crumpled  and  soiled, 
the  veins  stood  out  on  his  neck,  his  hair  was  tousled, 
his  face  was  red  and  streaming  with  sweat;  yet,  for 
all  that,  we  cheered  him  and  meant  it,  too.  He  ac- 
knowledged our  applause  in  an  honest,  simple  way, 
and  then  disappeared  in  the  crowd.  He  was  not 
posing  as  a  heroic  figure,  but  was  just  an  honest  moun- 
tain-climber who  accepted  the  challenge  of  the  moun- 
tain and  won.  In  our  cheering  we  did  just  what  the 
world  does:  we  gave  the  laurel  wreath  to  the  man  who 
wins  in  a  test  of  courage. 

I  think  "Excelsior"  is  pretty  good  stuff  in  the  way 
198 


MOUNTAIN-CLIMBING 

of  depicting  mountain-climbing,  and  I  always  want 
to  cheer  that  young  chap  as  he  fights  his  way  toward 
the  top.  He  could  have  stopped  down  there  in  the 
valley,  where  everything  was  snug  and  comfortable, 
but  he  chose  to  climb  so  as  to  have  a  look  around. 
I  thought  of  him  one  day  at  Scheidegg.  There  we 
were,  nearly  a  mile  and  a  half  above  sea-level,  shiver- 
ing in  the  midst  of  ice  and  snow  in  mid-July,  but  we 
had  a  look  around  that  made  us  glad  in  spite  of  the 
cold.  As  Virgil  says:  "It  will  be  pleasing  to  remember 
these  things  hereafter."  I  have  often  noticed  that  the 
old  soldiers  seem  to  recall  the  hardest  marches,  the 
most  severe  battles,  and  the  greatest  privations  more 
vividly  than  their  every-day  experiences. 

So  the  mountain-climbing  that  I  have  been  doing 
with  my  boys  and  girls  stands  out  like  a  cameo  in 
my  retrospective  view.  Sometimes  we  looked  back 
toward  the  valley,  and  it  seemed  so  peaceful  and 
beautiful  that  it  caused  the  mountain  before  us  to 
seem  ominous.  At  such  times,  when  courage  seemed 
to  be  oozing,  we  needed  to  reinforce  one  another  with 
words  of  cheer.  The  steep  places  seemed  perilously 
rough  at  times,  and  I  could  hear  a  stifled  sob  some- 
where in  my  little  company.  At  such  times  I  would 
urge  myself  along  at  a  more  rapid  pace,  that  I  might 
reach  a  higher  level  and  call  out  to  them  in  heartening 
tones  to  hurry  on  up  to  our  resting-place.  We  would 
199 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

often  sing  a  bit  in  the  midst  of  our  resting,  and  when 
the  sob  had  been  changed  to  a  laugh  I  felt  that  life 
was  well  worth  while. 

As  we  toiled  upward  I  was  ever  on  the  lookout  for 
a  patch  of  sunlight  in  the  midst  of  the  shadows  that 
it  mighMure  them  on.  And  it  never  failed.  Like  magic 
that  sun-spot  always  quickened  their  pace,  and  they 
often  hailed  it  with  a  shout.  They  would  even  race 
toward  that  sunny  place,  their  weariness  all  gone. 
When  a  bird  sang  we  always  stopped  to  listen;  and 
the  song  acted  upon  them  as  the  music  of  a  band 
acts  upon  drooping  soldiers.  On  the  next  stage  of 
the  journey  their  eyes  sparkled,  and  their  step  was 
more  elastic.  When  one  stumbled  and  fell,  we  helped 
him  to  his  feet  and  praised  his  effort,  wholly  ignoring 
the  fall.  Sometimes  one  would  become  discouraged 
and  would  want  to  drop  out  of  the  company  and  re- 
turn home.  When  this  happened,  we  would  gather 
about  him  and  tell  him  how  good  it  was  to  have  him 
with  us,  how  he  helped  us  on,  and  how  sorry  we 
should  be  to  have  him  absent  when  we  reached  the 
top.  When  he  decided  to  keep  on  with  us,  we  gave 
a  mighty  cheer  and  then  went  whistling  on  our  up- 
ward way. 

We  constantly  vied  with  one  another  in  discover- 
ing chaste  bits  of  scenery  along  the  way,  and  we 
were  ever  too  generous  to  withhold  praise  or  to  ap- 
propriate to  ourselves  the  credit  that  belonged  to 
200 


MOUNTAIN-CLIMBING 

another.  If  one  found  the  nest  of  a  bird  hidden  away 
in  the  foliage,  we  all  stopped  in  admiration.  When 
another  discovered  a  spring  gushing  out  from  beneath 
the  rocks,  we  all  refreshed  ourselves  with  the  limpid 
water  and  poured  out  our  thanks  to  the  discoverer. 
When  a  rare  flower  was  found,  we  took  time  to  examine 
it  minutely  till  we  all  felt  joy  in  the  flower  and  in  the 
finder.  To  us  nothing  was  ever  small  or  negligible 
that  any  one  of  our  company  discovered.  If  one 
started  a  song  we  all  joined  in  heartily  as  if  we  had 
been  waiting  for  that  one  to  lead  us  in  the  singing. 
Thus  each  one,  according  to  his  gifts  and  inclinations, 
became  a  leader  on  one  or  another  of  the  enterprises 
connected  with  our  journey. 

So,  in  tune,  it  seemed  to  us  that  the  big  tree  came 
to  meet  us  in  order  to  give  its  kindly  shade  for  our 
comfort;  that  the  bird  poured  forth  its  song  as  a  special 
gift  to  us  to  give  us  new  courage;  that  the  flower  met 
us  at  the  right  time  and  place  to  smile  its  beauty  into 
our  lives;  that  each  stream  laughed  its  way  to  our 
feet  to  quench  our  thirst,  and  to  share  with  us  its 
coolness;  that  the  mossy  bank  gave  us  a  special  in- 
vitation to  enjoy  its  hospitality;  that  the  cloud  had 
heard  our  wishes  and  came  to  shield  us  from  the  sun, 
and  that  the  path  came  forth  from  among  the  thickets 
to  guide  us  on  our  way.  Because  we  were  winning, 
all  nature  seemed  to  be  cheering  us  on  as  the  people 
cheered  the  man  at  Vesuvius. 
201 


REVERIES  OF  A  SCHOOLMASTER 

Having  reached  the  summit,  we  sat  together  in 
eloquent  silence.  We  had  toiled,  and  struggled,  and 
suffered  together,  and  so  had  learned  to  think  and 
feel  in  unison.  Our  spirits  had  become  fused  in  a 
common  purpose,  and  we  could  sit  in  silence  and  not 
be  abashed.  We  had  become  honest  with  our  sur- 
roundings, honest  with  one  another,  and  honest  with 
ourselves,  and  so  could  smile  at  mere  conventions 
and  find  joy  in  one  another  without  words.  We  had 
encountered  honest  difficulties — rocks,  trees,  streams, 
sloughs,  tangles,  sand,  and  sun,  and  had  overcome 
them  by  honest  effort  and  so  had  achieved  honesty. 
We  had  met  and  overcome  big  things,  too,  and  in 
doing  so  had  grown  big.  No  longer  did  our  hearts 
flutter  in  the  presence  of  little  things,  for  we  had 
won  poise  and  serenity. 

The  fogs  had  been  banished  from  our  minds;  our 
sight  had  become  clear;  our  spirits  had  been  en- 
larged; our  courage  had  been  made  strong,  and  our 
faith  was  lifted  up.  A  new  horizon  opened  up  before 
us  that  stretched  on  and  on  and  made  us  know  that 
life  is  a  big  thing.  The  sky  became  our  companion 
with  all  its  myriad  stars;  the  sea  became  our  neighbor 
with  all  the  life  it  holds,  and  the  landscape  became 
our  dooryard,  with  all  its  varied  beauty  and  grandeur. 
The  ships  upon  the  sea  and  the  trains  upon  the  land 
became  our  messengers  of  service.  The  wires  and  the 
202 


MOUNTAIN-CLIMBING 

air  sped  our  thoughts  abroad  and  linked  us  to  the 
world.  We  looked  straight  into  the  faces  of  the  big 
elemental  things  of  life  and  were  not  afraid. 

When  we  came  back  among  our  own  people,  they 
seemed  to  know  that  some  change  had  taken  place 
and  loved  us  all  the  more.  They  came  to  us  for  coun- 
sel and  comfort,  paying  silent  tribute  to  the  wisdom 
that  had  come  to  us  from  the  mountain.  They  looked 
upon  us  not  as  superiors,  but  as  larger  equals.  We 
had  learned  another  language,  but  had  not  forgotten 
theirs.  We  nestled  down  in  their  affections  and  told 
them  of  our  mountain,  and  they  were  glad. 

And  now  I  sit  before  the  fire  and  watch  the  pic- 
tures in  the  flickering  flames.  In  my  reverie  I  see  my 
boys  and  girls,  companions  in  the  mountain-climbing, 
going  upon  their  appointed  ways.  I  see  them  healing 
and  comforting  the  sick,  relieving  distress,  minister- 
ing to  the  needy,  and  supplanting  darkness  with  light. 
I  see  them  in  their  efforts  to  make  the  world  better 
and  more  beautiful,  and  life  more  blessed.  I  see  them 
bringing  hope  and  courage  and  cheer  into  many 
lives.  They  are  bringing  the  spirit  of  the  mountain 
down  into  the  valley,  and  men  rejoice.  Seeing  them 
thus  engaged,  and  hearing  them  singing  as  they  go, 
I  can  but  smile  and  smile. 


203 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    001  392  636    5 


STRATFORD  8.  GREEN 

BOOKSELLERS 

642-644   SO.  MAIN  ST. 

523    SO.  SPRING   ST. 


